


Words Are Trivial

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bipolar Ian, Colourful language, Homophobia, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Standard Shameless Stuff, Violence, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: Soulmates AU: Your soulmates first words appear as a tattoo shortly before you meet them.Ian gets his mark, but Mickey does not.  Not that he cares about this soulmates bullshit anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This idea popped into my head and I couldn't shake it. I was planning a short little one shot for my first Gallavich fic, y'know, get a feel for their voices, but this baby just kept growin' and growin'.  
> Ian's POV felt a little more stiff to me in comparison to how colourful Mickey's is, but I felt it important to have both their perspectives.

Mickey don't give a shit about this soulmates crap. Never has, never will. Life ain't no fairytale shit, and just 'cause someone's bullshit words blossom across your skin like a stain, don't mean everything's gonna be fuckin' daisies and sunshine forever.

He knows this from experience. He knows this from the bruises on his mother's skin and the hatred that flavours his father's mouth. Knows it from the fact that being supposed _soulmates_ has never stopped them from tearing each other apart. If love is his father's knuckles pounding against pale flesh repeatedly, until blood bubbles from mommy's mouth and spills down her chin, then Mickey don't want it. He's tasted blood and it ain't sweet. It's copper pennies and the thick taste that lingers for hours afterwards.

If love is his father only being tender when his lover is cold and still in a coffin, no tears, but the press of his rough, calloused hands against hers; looking so small in contrast, then Mickey don't need it. He wipes his nose, spits, looks away so Mandy or the boys won't see his tears, and thinks that this will never be him. Kneeling next to someone's coffin and looking like his world has crumbled when he's the one that's been stamping on the cracks for years. Nah. He don't need this.

Mickey don't give a shit about this soulmates crap. He don't wanna let anyone in, and he don't want anyone's bullshit words on his skin like a stain. His soulmate can take their words and shove them up their ass for all he fuckin' cares.

*

Ian isn't entirely sold on the notion of soulmates, either.

He can see there's something between Monica and Frank; something hot and burning that keeps drawing them back to each other, but there's destruction in it. A moth singeing its wings on a candle only to come back moments later. He wonders why all the stories make it sound like finding your other half brings peace and clarity, when all his parents seem to bring to each other is chaos.

Maybe it's because Monica is sick, or Frank is an addict. Maybe this isn't the way things are meant to be. Maybe most people are like V and Kev; happy and in sync. Maybe maybe maybe.

When he's younger he wonders what kind of girl he'll be paired with. If she's pretty and if she'll think his jokes are funny. If she'll hold his hand and tell people to shut up when they make fun of his hair, even though Ian is good at telling them to shut up himself. If she'll like the same music and TV shows and peanut butter as him (smooth not crunchy).

Then he moves towards puberty and the image he's been building in his head for years is shattered, because Ian knows now, there will be no girl waiting for him. It is a boy whose words he is going to wear like a badge.

He hopes they are better together than his parents. He hopes his boy does not run away like Monica. Ian hopes they can be the peace in each others' chaos.

*

Mickey is thirteen when he gets his first blowjob. Fuckin' Jess or some stupid standard white girl name like that. She has highlights even though she can't be much older than him. His pubic hair gets caught in her braces and it hurts like a bitch when she tugs away.

He gets hard from the sensation alone, but the sight of her head moving between his legs like she's bobbin' for fuckin' apples does nothing for him. She guides his hand to her tit and he has no idea what he's supposed to fuckin' do with that, so he squeezes it a few times. Doesn't see the point. Wonders why he doesn't see the point when his brothers act like tits are the be all and end all of fuckin' everything really.

Some of her lashes are stuck together with mascara and her lipstick smudges against his skin, and he thinks maybe she's an okay looking girl, maybe, whatever the fuck that equates to, but he doesn't think she's hot. He doesn't really wanna be fuckin' into her mouth. Has never really wanted to do that with any girl beyond wanting to have it over with just so he can say he's done it.

When he finally comes she spits it at the ground beside his foot.

“You lasted a real long time for bein' so young,” she says.

“The fuck's that mean?” Mickey's tone is defensive, guarded. Can she know?

All Jess-or-whoever does is shrug, wiping the corner of her mouth with a finger.

“Means what it sounds like.” She hitches her skirt up as she's talking, tucking it into the waistband and pushing her panties down.

“The fuck are you doin'?” There's a hint of alarm in Mickey's voice and he hates himself for it.

“Lettin' you finger bang me.”

The way Jess-or-whoever says it, she makes it sound like it's a privilege. Something Mickey should be pleased he's getting the chance to do. He's not fuckin' pleased. His stomach tightens uncomfortably at the thought, but fear and pride drive him forward, 'cause if he doesn't it might give him away.

So Mickey sits on a school toilet and awkwardly rams his fingers repeatedly into this girl whose name he is not even certain of. She stands with a raised leg, foot against his thigh and back against the wall of their cubicle. He wants to push her foot down but he doesn't. She's making little noises he's certain she's lifted straight out of fuckin' porn, all high whines and fake as fuck little “yeah”s and “ohmygod”s. He wishes she'd just finish so he could take his fingers out of the fuckin' wet warmth of her that's makin' his skin crawl. Least a mouth on his cock was distraction. There's nothing to distract from the moaning girl groping her own tits in front of him.

Eventually she lowers her leg (he doesn't know if she's even had an orgasm or what, but he don't fuckin' care) and pulls her panties up. She looks at him as if considering saying something, flipping her skirt down.

“See ya,” is all she says in the end, leaving Mickey on the toilet with his pants still undone.

He scrubs at his hand until the skin is pink and raw and swears he can still fuckin' smell her juices clinging to him. Probably just the memory lingering, something he can't get rid off with soap and water. Mickey sighs and meets his eyes in the mirror. He is paler than usual, looking small and more stressed out than any thirteen year old just after getting their first hummer has the right to look, probably.

He knows now. For sure. Had thoughts before; caught himself looking at the boy in his bio class for too long, curious glances in the gym showers, watched Corey Mason chewing his lip once and wondered what it would be like if he bit it instead. Fuckin' little, unwanted, intrusive thoughts just barging into his head and fuckin' up his life when they had no right to be there.

He don't wanna fuck no girl's mouth because he don't wanna fuck no girl. Boys. Boys are what make his dick twitch and his mouth dry. Boys are what make him wake hard and sweaty from dreams of calloused hands, forceful mouths, broad shoulders, thin hips, gripping at short hair. Something he's been steadfastly denying; avoided thinkin' bout it beyond one illicit sneak peek at a gay porn vid. No more than 30 secs, shut down before he could even really process it. Too fuckin' weird. Too fuckin' real.

The whole soulmates nonsense ain't just fairytale bullshit any more. Now it's dangerous. Now it has the potential to fuckin' ruin him, because if he ends up with some boy's words on his skin, with his words staining some fuckin' guy... He's dead if that gets out. Probably him and his soulmate both.

So Mickey goes from not giving a shit to really fuckin' hoping he never crosses paths with whatever asshole he's apparently destined for. Better that way. Safer for them both. Safer to suffer through the ordeal of fingering girls in dirty bathrooms for the sake of rep than wearing some boy's words like fuckin' evidence of his guilty secret.

*

Ian is also thirteen when he gets his first blowjob, but it's not with some random girl wearing too much mascara, and he actually enjoys it.

Roger Spikey is two years above Ian. He's on the football team; with a lean, muscular body, dark blue eyes, and short brown hair. To be brief, he's pretty fucking hot, and this has not gone unnoticed by Ian. Then again, most attractive boys in his school have not gone unnoticed by Ian. Most boys in general. He is constantly looking them over in the hallway, trying to guess if any of them might be into boys, might be looking back and trying to guess the same thing about him.

Roger Spikey isn't someone that would have been high on his list of potential homos. He's heard the tales; the hummers beneath the bleachers, the fucks in the bathrooms, the girls walking a bit stiff the next day. Everyone knows about Donkey Dick Spikey. His reputation categorises him as someone almost definitely straight in Ian's mind.

He finds out first hand how wrong he is.

He's at a house party, doesn't know whose party it is, someone from his class knows someone who knows someone whose parents are out of town for a few days, so he tags along. Not the first house party he's crashed, but definitely one with the biggest turn out. Ian drinks. He talks to a few people in his year. He drinks. A younger girl tries to hit on him. He makes excuses about needing the bathroom. He hides out in one of the spare bedrooms. He drinks.

He's lounging on the bed, on white sheets with pink flowers that match the curtains. His cup is empty and he doesn't wanna brave going downstairs again just yet, so he lights up a cigarette instead and smokes. He can feel the alcohol humming beneath his skin; not quite drunk, but definitely buzzed. Which is how Roger finds him, arm folded behind his head, feet leaving traces of dirt on the sheets, a trail of smoke trailing up from his lips.

“This isn't the bathroom,” he says.

“Nah.” Ian watches him, one eyebrow raised. Roger doesn't leave. Roger steps into the room and pulls the door behind him. Roger moves towards Ian.

“Can I bum one?”

“Last.” Ian shrugs, a kind of wordless apology.

“Can I have a drag of that one, then?”

“Sure.”

Ian holds it out to him. Their fingers brush as Roger takes it from him. He drags deeply. Ian watches his lips around the cigarette and absently licks the corner of his own mouth. Roger holds the smoke for a moment, before exhaling with a low, pleased sigh.

“Fuck, thanks man, I needed that. Ahhh- Gallagher, right?”

Ian nods, then adds: “Ian.”

“Right. Ian.” Roger takes another drag before passing the cigarette back to him. “Thanks, Ian.”

“Sure.”

Roger sits at the bottom of the bed and they pass the smoke between them until it's burned out. Ian doesn't miss the way Roger's eyes move down over him, the way they linger at the line of skin visible where his t-shirt has risen a bit. He kills the butt against the headboard and drops it into his abandoned cup, moving up into a sitting position.

He had, when he was a bit younger, considered saving himself for his soulmate. This had been a very briefly lived moral. After all, he doesn't know when his soulmate is gonna show. He could be old, like thirty or something. If he finds him at all. He doesn't want to deprive himself of experiences in the meanwhile and, hey, he figures it's better to have experience, to be able to impress and please his soulmate, rather than coming across a fumbling virgin. Teenage hormones may also have played a role in his decision to scrap this idea. Hey, how was he meanta know puberty would make him so horny?

It is strange, how they go from smoking together to having their tongues in each others' mouths. Ian's not so sure of it himself; not sure if that's the fault of the alcohol or just that it happens so quick. He looks at Roger's lips. Roger looks at his lips. Their eyes meet, and then Roger is leaning in and Ian is meeting him halfway.

It's a little messy. A little too firm at first, pressure against his lips so hard he can feel it in his teeth, and then when Roger's tongue starts pushing into his mouth Ian finds it overall a bit more wet than he'd like it to be, but that's fine, because he's kissing a boy. A hot boy. He's kissing a hot boy alone in a room at a party he's crashed, and it's all very exciting. Too much so to get hung up on the amount of saliva Roger is producing.

The blowjob doesn't happen at the party. Ian pushes Roger back onto the flowery sheets and they make out for what feels like hours. Ian's hands exploring where they can; Roger's shoulders, chest, the line of his back, the curve of his ass. In return Roger's hands move over his jaw, slip beneath his shirt, ghost along his stomach, fingers tangle in his hair. Ian lies along the length of his body and their hips move together, dry humping, not enough to get him off, but close.

Roger eventually starts to undo the button of Ian's jeans, looking at him for permission. Ian nods, over eager, his cock throbbing painfully from all the friction that was delicious but not quite enough. His own hands fumble at Roger's jeans. They lay side by side, watching their own hands curled around each others' cocks. Ian has a vague, absent thought that Donkey Dick was not an exaggeration. It doesn't take long for either of them to come.

“I, uh, better go find that bathroom,” Roger says.

“Sure.”

Ian watches him go. Wipes his hands on the pillow case and uses the edge of the sheets to clean himself up. Thinks he's leaving a little surprise for whoever the fuck lives here to find. Laughs at that as he fishes out his packet of cigarettes. There's still four left. He makes his way downstairs and lights up another as he steps out into the cold night air, feeling like he's achieved something.

It's almost a week before he sees Roger again. He bumps against him in the corridor, nods for Ian to follow him. They step into the bathroom and into the end stall, the same stall that, unbeknownst to Ian, Mickey Milkovich received his first blowjob in almost two years prior. Roger presses him against the door of the cubicle the moment Ian has slid the lock into place.

“Been thinkin' 'bout you,” he says.

“Yeah?” Ian smirks up at him, one eyebrow raised, trying not to let the little flutter of butterfly nerves in his stomach show in his expression.

“Yeah. Mostly your cock,” Roger says, pressing his palm against Ian. He's already half hard and he exhales sharply at the touch, his hips pressing forward of their own accord. Roger chuckles, the sound low and his breath warm against Ian's cheek. He smells like spearmint gum and cigarette smoke. “I wanna blow you.”

Well, Ian's not going to argue with that, really.

Roger kisses him; briefer this time, drier, and Ian can taste the spearmint now. He presses Ian back against the door again even though Ian hasn't really moved, and then he's dropping to his knees, working Ian's jeans open. Ian watches, not really sure what he's supposed to do with his hands. Roger strokes him a few times before drawing his tongue up along his cock, and Ian exhales a shaky breath. His head falls back against the door when Roger takes the head of his cock in his mouth, and one of Ian's hands finds his hair.

Roger's excess saliva seems to finally have an upside, slick and sloppy as he moves his head. He's a touch clumsy. His teeth scrape against Ian at one point, and he hisses, but it's a small price to pay. He doesn't last long. Roger turns and spits in the toilet while Ian catches his breath. His skin is flushed and his freckles stand out in contrast to the pink.

Roger rises and undoes his own jeans. Ian swallows; part turned on, part nervous. He tucks himself away, knowing he's expected to return the favour. Roger pulls him forward and tugs at his hips, encouraging him to his knees. Ian goes, because he thinks it's only fair, and besides, it's another experience he can mark off his list.

He licks and teases a bit first, delaying the intimidating task of taking Roger's donkey dong in his mouth. He tries to mimic what Roger was doing to him, but if he's honest, he was really too lost in the sensation of hot wet mouth around his cock to take note of the mechanics. After a moment, he thinks _fuck it_ and decides to just go for it. He's far too ambitious on his first attempt, Roger's cock bumping the back of his mouth and making him gag.

Once he learns to work what he can't take with his hand, it gets a bit easier. It's just rhythm, really. Move his hand, bob his head, remember to drag his tongue here or swirl it when he's coming up to the top. He's careful with his teeth to avoid Roger's mistake, and going by the heavy breathing and occasional stifled moans, he thinks he's doing pretty good.

It surprises him when Roger comes, sudden and without warning, just a hand tightening in Ian's hair and his hips jerking with his orgasm. Ian's not prepared, and he ends up coughing and with fuckin' jizz rolling down his chin. He glares up at Roger when he laughs, but feels a touch better when Roger balls up some toilet roll and dabs Ian's chin. He holds it out and Ian looks at him questioningly.

“Spit,” Roger clarifies.

“I already swallowed.”

“Oh,” he seems surprised. “Okay.”

With Roger on the toilet lid, Ian didn't know what else to do with it.

“Well, this was...” Roger starts.

“Yeah,” Ian says.

“We should do it again sometime.”

“Yeah.”

*

Mickey drops out of school. Mickey goes on runs with Terry and the boys. Mickey lifts from the local stores. Mickey's main interactions with people outside of his family involve violence and fear and swear words spat in a voice that is saturated with threat.

If he has a fuckin' soulmate, chances are they're gonna have some nasty ass shit stuck on them forever.

Not that he fuckin' cares. It's not like he checks himself over when he's changing for any sign of what his supposed soulmate is gonna say to him. It's not like his fingers trace empty skin in the shower, wondering where the words are gonna appear, what they're gonna say, what writing they'll be in. He doesn't even fuckin' want a soulmate so why would he waste his time on that stupid idealistic bullshit? He don't give a shit. He won't give a shit if he never sees them words appear. In fact, it'll be a fuckin' relief.

It's only when he's drunk, or sometimes during a particularly strong high, that he lets his mind wander to what his soulmate might be like. Wonders if he's gonna be taller or shorter, if he swallows when he sucks cock, if he likes to top and likes it rough and likes the way his fingers leave bruises on Mickey's skin when he presses hard enough. Hopes he ain't some rich asshole, or someone who's got a fuckin' stupid sense of morals. Hopes he's got a good cock.

Sometimes he jerks off to the idea of a mystery man fucking him. The details are blurry; after all, he dunno what the fucker's gonna look like, so he tries not to give him any defining features. Don't matter. It's not the visual of the man himself that matters, it's the idea of someone fuckin' meant to fit against him. Mickey assumes that means he'll know exactly the best way to fuck him. That he'll go hard and deep, slam into him until he's all Mickey can feel, all Mickey can think about, until all the other shit that comprises his fuckin' life falls away and the world just narrows down to the cock in his ass. That he'll touch his cock at the same time, make him fall apart, that his orgasm will shake him to the very fuckin' core.

He don't go for the romantic bullshit, but the idea that someone out there might be the best fuck he'll ever have, that's an idea he can almost get behind. Or rather, get beneath, as the case may be.

What he absolutely never considers is the fact his soulmate might not want him, because who the fuck would? He's Southside trash, a Milkovich, the worst of the worst of the ghetto scum. He's goin' nowhere fast and he ain't got no way to turn things around. His life is made up of bouncin' between crime and juvie. He's a dirty mouthed thug with a quick temper and a bad attitude, maybe just enough brains to scrape by. Closeted and terrified. Sixteen and still shit scared of his dad.

No. He don't ever linger on the fact that no one could want him. Don't ever lie in his bed after a fantasy soulmate wank and face the possibility of a future where his mark never appears, 'cause he ain't got no partner, 'cause he ain't worth it and ain't no one wanna be stuck with him. Nah. That'd be far too fuckin' gay, so he definitely don't think that. Ever.

*

Not everyone finds their soulmate. Ian knows that. Hell, it's not like a lot of people even manage to cross paths with their other half. It's a good deal of luck to live in the same country, never mind near enough to meet each other early, if at all.

It doesn't mean they have to be alone forever. Just because they don't find the one person they fit with best, doesn't mean they can't find people they fit with pretty damn well. People they love who love them back. People they can make their own happiness with.

He knows a lot of people who haven't found their matches.

Fiona hasn't found hers yet. It doesn't stop her from having fun; from jumping from relationship to relationship. Sometimes Ian thinks she's afraid to be alone, but then, the lack of pull from knowing any of her matches are her soulmates keeps her from committing. Well, that and she dates a lot of assholes. Probably mostly the asshole thing.

Sheila Jackson does not have her mark, but that didn't stop her from marrying Eddie and having a child with him. Sure, they didn't last, but he's not sure if that can be blamed on the lack of soulmate connection. Sometimes people fall apart. That's normal, that's how life works. Sometimes mental illness and troubled teen daughters lead to marriage fall outs and suicide.

It's not like you can't live without your soulmate. Can't be satisfied. Can't be happy.

Just because Ian doesn't know many positive examples, doesn't mean it can't work.

“Hey, Kash,” Ian says one day, while Kash is arranging cans of soup and he's laying out the fresh fruit. It's been almost a month since they've started fucking; their most recent session a rushed fuck in the storeroom at the start of Ian's shift, barely half an hour before.

“Hey, Ian.”

Ian rolls his eyes in an over dramatic fashion. Kash laughs. Ian likes that sound. It makes him feel warm inside. Likes that Kash gives him attention; that even though he's older and technically in a position of power over Ian, he still has an interest in him, still wants to touch him and fuck him, but also talk to him in between, laugh at his jokes and share his interests. It's a nice feeling.

“Why did you marry Linda?”

All trace of amusement vanishes from Kash's expression. It's like a shutter coming down. Even before the laughter dies on his lips, his eyes are already narrowing, everything shutting down and closing off. Ian almost regrets asking.

“I never got my mark, and maybe for the best; it was expected I'd take a wife. Shit, even I kind of believed that, then. I guess I didn't realise what I was until too late. Or if I did, I didn't admit it. So I gave in to parental pressure; found someone, started a family.”

“Did you love her?” Ian doesn't look as he asks. Giving Kash a touch of privacy. Hoping that inspires honesty.

“I guess. In a way. Maybe not the way you mean.”

“How?”

“I don't know. She was smart, she was funny, and you know how fierce she is. I admired her. In retrospect, it was as a person. I admired her qualities. It's not the way you feel about a lover. It's... It's not the way I feel about you.”

Ian blushes, ducking his head and looking very intently at the oranges he's sorting. He feels a giddy little rush in his stomach; pleased and flattered. He glances briefly at Kash with a lopsided smile and Kash smiles back.

“Are you happy?” Ian asks. when he can get his smile under control again.

“Now? I'm not sure. Maybe we were at first. Or maybe it was the novelty of everything new, y'know? Marriage, pregnancy, the boys. We didn't have time to think about if we were actually happy or not.”

“So what happens if you get your mark now?”

Kash is quiet for a long time. Ian thinks, perhaps, he may not answer.

“I don't know,” he says, finally, then: “Can you do the fridges when you're done?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He's still young. Real young. It's fine that he doesn't have his mark. It doesn't mean he won't get it, and if he never does, that doesn't mean he can't be happy. That he can't have someone all the same, create something special with them.

He doesn't have to hide like Kash, or be scared like Fiona, or watch things fall apart like Sheila.

*

Everything is shit.

Mickey's life feels like a cycle. Maybe the repetition should be comforting, but it ain't. Doesn't help that most of it is below board bullshit; scams or robberies or deals to pull together enough cash to keep them alive. Runs with Terry or dealing drugs with Iggy, mostly. Mandy's the only one fuckin' clean, workin' some bullshit job at a waffle house that, hands down, has the most embarassin' and ugly uniform he's ever seen. He delights in it the first few times he sees her, looking pissed off and miserable, but then the novelty wears off and he can't make sense of it. The fuck's a squirrel got to do with waffles, anyway?

It just goes in circles. Sure, they threaten different people, rob different places, deal to different addicts, but it's all different shades of shit. Their house gets more damp and miserable, but it's just the same shithole he's been in all his life. He gets into stupid arguments with Mandy, starts fights with Iggy or Joey or Jamie over nothing, just to work out their boredom, gets beat on by Terry for bullshit reasons or just 'cause he feels like it. It's old. It's stale. He's gettin' older but shit all is changing and he just feels like his life is wastin' away.

Not that it's surprising. Not that he expected any different.

Doesn't make it any less fuckin' shit.

He drinks. He smokes. He gets high. Anything to distract from the shitfest that is his life. Anything to take the edge off. Anything to numb him to it for a while.

He considers fuckin' someone, when he's bored or horny or lonely, fuck, he'd never admit that, but he gets so fuckin lonely, sometimes. He blames it mostly on the fuckin' gay thing. Blames a lot of his problems on that.

He fucked a girl, once. Three years after the fuckin' awful blowjob experience. Angie Zago, neighbourhood slut, ready and willin' to spread 'em for anyone. He went to her because he thought being a virgin at sixteen was embarrassing, 'cause she was reliable and wouldn't ask questions, because maybe if he could bring himself to fuck a girl then he could just keep fucking them and pretending.

Didn't fuckin' work that way. He's surprised he managed to get off at all. With her large, wobbly tits jigglin' in his face, fuckin' big brown burger nipples, the smell of her, _ugh_ , he hates the smell of them, that potent vag slime stench that seems to cling to his skin for fuckin' days afterwards. He had closed his eyes, blocked out her asthmatic breathing, and thought of broad chests and strong hands and hard cocks fucking into him over and over. He came. He left pretty fuckin' sharpish. The whole thing had been a disaster, and he'd stayed away from chicks after that. Not worth the fuckin' hassle. Mickey just acts like he's too busy to be wastin' time on that shit if anyone brings it up. Acts like he's better than his brothers and their stupid, lusty, sex crazed ventures.

Can't hook up with any guys round here. Too fuckin' risky. And he won't go to a bar or a club, 'cause that's just too fuckin' gay, too real, a situation he ain't willing to put himself in. So he sticks to wanking, fingering himself, even got a few toys so he can experience what it's like to have something bigger inside him. Pleases himself so he don't need no one else to.

Lonely is just a fuckin' chemical reaction in his brain, and it can go fuck itself.

*

Everything goes to shit.

There's no real catalyst for it; it's just kind of a growing pressure behind the dam, pushing and pushing until the walls holding Ian together break and he comes rushing out like the most treacherous and unpredictable rapids.

He enlists because it's the only way he can think to get away from it all; the monotonous boredom, the expectations, every day a slightly varied repetition of the one before. His skin is crawling with restlessness and nothing he does seems to settle it. He runs, he works, he fucks (not Kash anymore, not once Linda found out, but guys in clubs who don't ask questions), he goes to school, he goes to ROTC training, he does homework. It all feels meaningless. It all feels small.

Ian is buzzing inside and he needs out; out of his own skin, maybe, but he can't quite manage that, so the next best thing is out of Chicago. It's shockingly easy. They barely glance at his fake ID before nodding him on the bus, and he thinks _this is it, this is the start of it, of my life, I'm going to live now, I'm going to do everything I've been planning, it's going to be great, I'm going to be great._

It is, in fact, not great.

It's barely three months before Ian is back again.

He does a brief stint in military prison, and after assessment, the psych ward (which he hates). Then he's back in the house with his family, who are looking at him different, watching him closely; like he's a bomb about to go off but if they see the explosion starting they might be able to cut the wire in time.

He wants to scream and shout and tell them, over and over again, that he is not sick. He is not bipolar. He is not anything like Monica, fuck, no, he is so far from Monica, please stop comparing them, please don't draw parallels, please, _please_ -

But the thing is, since the night Ian tried to flee Basic, tried in blind panic to hot wire a helicopter in his sheer desperation to escape, earned himself a lasting scar and a warrant for his arrest and a fuckin' mental heath diagnosis, he has not spoken a word. His therapist (Dr Schwartz, “but please, call me Kristen”) calls it selective mutism. Tells him it's an aspect of his PTSD, which is likely what enhanced his bipolar episodes in the first place. Informs him that it's a response to stress or anxiety, and that he will be able to work through it.

Ian can't tell her to go fuck herself, so he just flips her off instead, hopes that combined with his bitch face gets the message across. It doesn't feel _selective_ to him. There is no choice in his silence. He wants to speak; wants to communicate, but he can't. He moves his mouth in the shape of words, but no sounds come out. It's like his throat has closed in on itself, like it is too tight and all the words are getting jammed somewhere at the base of it. He can still manage some noises, sometimes, little hums of agreement or grunts of displeasure. Sounds that kind of convey a message, but not as clearly as he wants them to. He hasn't managed laughter yet.

He thinks the therapy is fuckin' useless considering he can't get a word out. Call Me Kristen keeps trying to get him to talk about the incident that prompted all this. Keeps asking him probing questions. “ _Did something happen to make you react the way you did, Ian? What was the reason you tried to take that helicopter? How were you feeling before that?”_ All the while he sits and stares blankly back at her because she fuckin' knows he can't answer any of her bullshit questions. Not that he wants to talk about it, anyway. Not that he needs a therapist.

He's not crazy.

He's not Monica.

He's not he's not he's _not_.

At first he doesn't take his pills. Hides them. Keeps them beneath his tongue and spits them afterwards. After he flushes them, his family start taking turns making sure he's swallowing them. It's irritating at first, but after he almost knocks Debbie with a baseball bat, guilt settles any silent protests he had.

Then he doesn't really feel anything for a while. The meds keep him in bubble wrap. He sees things happening around him, but they don't really touch him. Knows he should have certain feelings in response to things, but he doesn't really process them. He sleeps a lot. Partially he's tired, partially he wants away from the numb apathy he now exists in. Even when he's awake, he keeps to his room. Hates the way his family look at him; a mixture of wary and pity.

He communicates via text, but it's not the same. Their house is loud and lively, and without a voice to claw his way into the attention, Ian feels a little lost in it. Part of the wallpaper. When they're not making sure he's fed his pills, he's just the ghost trailing around the house.

It fuckin' sucks.

It's only when Ian sees it that he feels something for the first time in weeks. He's stepped into the bathroom to shower when something about his reflection in the bathroom mirror catches his eye. It's a black smudge beneath his right collarbone, and his mind has a brief struggle trying to think what he could have got on him. Then it clicks that it's his mark and he bounds forward to see what it says.

The writing is sloping and messy; the letters aren't joined, and they're kind of blocky looking. Almost like a child's writing. It's all in capitals.

Ian reads them over and over, feeling his heart picking up pace and his stomach twisting in a dizzy, giddy, sick excitement. It's more emotion than he can remember having in the past few months, and he feels very alive with it. He's smiling without realising; wide, goofy, showing off too many teeth. He lifts an index finger and traces it gently over the letters.

_**HANDS OFF THE GOODS, FIRECROTCH.** _

*

Mickey's mark has still not appeared.

He's stopped checking as often, now. Only really looks when he's assessing the damage of the new bruises or other injuries he's picked up. 'Ey, with them coating his skin, what need does he have for words, anyway? It ain't like he cares.

He tells himself that over and over.

*

Ian looks at it constantly. Touches it. Traces the lettering with his fingers. Keeps checking back like he's afraid it's a mistake, like it'll vanish if he goes too long without looking at it. Even when he's not looking, it's all he's thinking about.

No one has to make him take his pills now. He sticks to his meds schedule, eats regularly, works out, gets enough sleep. His mark appearing means it won't be long now until he meets his mate. He wants to be better for him. He doesn't want him to have to deal with Ian's brokenness. Doesn't want to scare him off.

He stops hiding in his room all the time and starts making excuses to get out; goes for his morning run without fail, does the grocery shop for Fiona, comes down to help out at the diner, visits Lip at college, goes for long walks in the evenings. Tries to find reasons to take himself out of Southside, because if his mate were here, surely he'd have met them by now.

Surprisingly, he's only ran less than fifteen minutes from his house when they do finally meet.

*

Mickey's running. He hates fuckin' running, but there's cops on his tail and he's too old for juvie now. Doesn't really fancy a stint in the big boy lock up. Especially not for fuckin' dealin'. Shit, if he's goin down for something he'd rather be goin down for something hardcore.

He's been running at least five minutes now. He's starting to wheeze. Damn his fuckin' smoker's lungs.

He takes a corner too fast and collides head on with a jogger – and Jesus, what kind of masochistic fucks inflict this upon themselves for fun? Mickey stumbles back and almost goes down on his ass, but the health nut also seems to have fuckin' ninja reflexes, for his hand shoots out and grabs Mickey's wrist to steady him. He yanks his hand back and glares daggers.

The jogger is taller than him; all long, lanky limbs. He's thin, but Mickey can see the muscle definition in his arms and legs, thanks to the fact he's only wearin' a fuckin' vest top and shorts even though the autumn is already bringing them plummeting temperatures. His cheeks are pink, whether from cold or exertion, Mickey dunno. He's got a shock of ginger hair, all swept back from his face, and he looks as if he's surprised himself by grabbing for Mickey. His jaw is sharp as a fuckin' blade and his eyes can't seem to decide if they're blue or green.

“Hands off the goods, Firecrotch,” Mickey snaps. It's a defensive reaction to the fact Mickey's thinkin' he could definitely find a more enjoyable work out for them both. He's gotta shut gay thoughts like that down, fuckin' stamp them out like burned down cigarette butts.

Carrot Top's jaw goes slack, and Mickey thinks it might be surprise at his biting tone, but mostly he's just thinking how good that parted mouth would look around his cock. Fuck. Who is this asshole, anyway? Showing up in his fuckin' weather inappropriate clothes and lookin' far too attractive against the dull, shitty Southside backdrop. He can go fuck himself. Mickey ain't got time for this.

“Get the fuck outta my way.” Mickey shoves past him before he can say anything and forces himself into a jog again. He doesn't look back, so he don't see Red staring after him.

*

Ian's still stunned. Mickey Milkovich. Of all fucking people, Mickey fuckin' Milkovich is his soulmate.

He laughs. Can't help it. It doesn't make much noise, sounds more like a repetitive exhale than recognisable laughter, but his body shakes with it. Puffs of his breath rise on the air. He bends, hands on his knees, and laughs and laughs and laughs. It's a kind of dazed, drunken, giddy laughter that is born from a mixture of shock and delight. He's still laughing when two cops round the corner and pause at the sight of him. One of them is Tony. Tony who screwed his sister.

“Oh, hey, Ian. You seen a man pass this way? 'Bout this height, dark hair, wearing a blue hoody?”

Ian nods. Most people know about his inability to speak now. Word spreads quickly in the ghetto. Tony doesn't question his silence.

“See which way he went?”

Ian nods again, and purposefully points them in the wrong direction. After they're out of view, he turns and starts running in the direction Mickey took off in. He's lost a lot of his fitness with being ill, but while six minute miles may be a thing of the past, he's still pretty darn fast. He runs the length of the street, glancing down each alley as he passes them. He turns right first, and when he finds no Mickey, he turns and circles back the other way.

Eventually, he has to accept the fact that Mickey's gone. He's escaped both the cops and Ian. He kicks an abandoned bottle hard, sends it soaring into the wall with enough force to smash it. _Fuck,_ he tries to say, with quite a bit of force behind it, but as usual, the word doesn't make it out.

_Yeah. Great idea, Ian. Catch him, and then what? Not like you can even tell him._

Still, he knows now. He's got a soulmate. He's found him. He's not on the other side of the planet. He's just a few blocks away, actually, and yeah, he's maybe not who Ian thought he'd be, but he's not going to question it.

Ian abandons his run and goes home.

*

Mickey ducks down an alley, scales a fire escape, and hides out on the roof until he's smoked through three cigarettes. That seems like an appropriate amount of time for him to have lost the cops. Fuckin' pigs. Oink oink, motherfuckers. Milkovich slips through your dirty hooves again. Shit, do pigs have hooves? They don't got paws, anyway.

Whatever.

He marches home and finds it blissfully empty, for once. Colin's got his own place with his girl now, Mandy's working her diner shift, Iggy's nowhere to be seen, probably still out sellin' his half of the gear, and he ain't seen Joey or Jamie since Terry last went into the joint, so who the fuck knows what happened to them. Mickey hauls his sweaty ass off to the shower, shedding clothes as he goes. He's not long out when he hears a series of short, sharp knocks at the door.

He goes still, listening as if somehow he can hear who the fuck it is. That anyone is knockin' is suspicious enough. Ain't no one come near their house that don't live here or know someone who do, and then they just walk on in. Ain't like the door's ever locked. No one dumb enough to risk robbin' the Milkoviches.

Mickey lifts a tank top from the floor and pulls it on over his ugly, faded joggers. Ain't got no stains on it, so it's practically good as fuckin' new. He shoves a gun down the back of the waistband, just in case, and makes his way to answer the door. The fuckin' redhead is there, no longer in his running shit, but in jeans and a green hoody. He smiles at Mickey. Mickey stares back. The silence stretches.

“The fuck you want?” Mickey eventually asks.

The guy holds up a finger, as if asking for him to wait. He slides his phone from his pocket and taps at the screen, before turning it to show Mickey a message on his notes:

Hi. I'm Ian.

“Aright... Cat got your fuckin' tongue or somethin'?”

Ian raises his chin, revealing a long stretch of pale throat. Mickey's saliva production seems to power into fuckin' overdrive as his mouth waters. He's so busy staring he almost doesn't catch Ian's display. He taps his throat a few times, then shakes his head.

“This fuckin' charades or what?”

Ian breathes out his nose in what kind of sounds like a sigh, but ain't quite. He taps on his phone again.

I can't talk.

“Okay, Ariel, that still don't tell me why you're here.”

Ian's lips part. He inhales. His brow furrows in concentration and his mouth moves, but no words come out. He looks frustrated, like there's a fuckin storm passing over his expression. Shouldn't be hot, but it is. Mickey looks away. When he looks back, Ian has relaxed his face back into a smile. He taps at the right side of his chest. Mickey raises his eyebrows, silently demanding he hurry the fuck up and get to the fuckin' point. Nice as this guy is to look at, Mickey really ain't up to freezing his ass off over the head of him.

Ian's hand comes up to his zipper. He has long, thin fingers. Mickey thinks they look pretty fuckin' ideal for fingering. Would definitely go a lot deeper than his own. He licks he corner of his mouth and glances back up to Ian's face. His eyes look more green now, and he's watching Mickey carefully. Mickey stares back, openly challenging. Ian seems to hesitate for just a moment, then he tugs the zip down and pushes his hoody aside, tugging down the already low neckline of his shirt underneath.

It's a moment before Mickey recognises his own handwriting, and then alarm bells start going off.

“No. No fuckin' way.”

Ian just taps the words, and he looks far too fuckin' calm about this whole thing, like he's just waitin' patiently for Mickey to recognise his own words. Which he does. Knows he said them not that long ago, but that don't fuckin' matter, 'cause he ain't got no soulmate. He knows that, 'cause he ain' got no mark, he ain't-

Except his mark would be Ian's first words to him, and Ian don't fuckin' talk.

“Shit.” He looks up at Ian, eyes wide and wild with panic. Ian just grins back at him, nods, sorta kinda lookin' like he understands even though he can't understand shit. Don't know shit about Mickey and his situation, soulmate or no. Mickey grabs him by the arm and forcefully yanks him inside. “Get the fuck in here before anyone sees.”

Ian seems surprised by the sudden force, but not displeased. Fuckin' smiley lanky ginger asshole, with his stray strands of hair flopping forward onto his forehead all fuckin' endearing and his crinkly eyes and his fuckin lopsided grin. Mickey wants to punch him. He wants to punch him until he ain't smilin' anymore, 'cept he doesn't, he wants to kiss him, but he can't, so he wants to punch him for makin' him want somethin' he can't fuckin' have.

He keeps dragging Ian until they're in his room, then he lets go and puts space between them, like bein' too close to Ian right now is dangerous. It might be. He can't trust himself not to do somethin' stupid.

Ian seems completely unconcerned by Mickey's internal freak out. He shrugs off a battered back pack and sits it on the beat up old couch in Mickey's room. Leaning over it, he digs for a bit before producing a Tupperware box of cookies. Motherfuckin' cookies. What the fuck? Mickey just stares at them for a moment, completely at a loss.

“You Betty Crocker or some shit now?”

Don't you like cookies?

He does. That's not the point.

“I don't want any fuckin' cookies right now.” Mickey knocks the box from Ian's hand. It lands on the couch with a little _thump_. Ian glares at him. “Look, there's been a mix up or some shit. I ain't your soulmate. I ain't gay, and if you try an' tell anyone I am, I'll fuckin' tear your tongue out. Not that you need it, anyway.”

Ian's glare somehow gets fiercer, and he shoves Mickey. Fuckin' shoves him. Some kind of kindergarten shit. Mickey stumbles a half step in surprise, then bounces back from it easily, shoving Ian back. They go back and forth like that a bit, until the back of Mickey's knees hit the bed and he lands on his ass, and suddenly Ian is all up in his space, breathing hard through his nose, lookin' mad and hot as hell. He stares at Mickey with open anger, and Mickey stares back the same. Then Ian's eyes drop to his lips and Mickey's stomach floods with heat.

He doesn't have time to stop Ian as he moves forward. Mickey forgets why he's supposed to be pushing him away when their lips connect. Forgets that he ain't meant to be gay when Ian cups the back of his head and licks into his mouth. Forgets Terry would fuckin' kill him on the spot for this as he tangles his fingers in Ian's red hair, pushes back with more force, licks into Ian's mouth and kisses him like he's fuckin' drownin' and Ian's the only life raft he's got. Forgets everything but the slide of Ian's tongue against his and the little sound Ian makes when he huffs an exhale through the nose and the press of his fingers against Mickey's scalp.

*

Ian wants to tell Mickey he's a fuckin' dumb ass. That he can't argue with the words on Ian's skin, can't deny what the mark means, can't just decide he doesn't wanna be Ian's soulmate because he doesn't wanna be gay. Wants to tell him all that and more. Wants to raise his voice and let his anger out, but he can't, and it would take far too long to type all that out. He hasn't got the time. Kissing Mickey seems to be a much quicker way to make his point. When Mickey kisses back, it feels like victory.

Ian cups Mickey's head with one hand, and the other slips around his waist. His fingers brush something solid, and he pulls back, expression questioning. Mickey just looks at him for a moment; his breathing coming a little heavier, his lips slick with saliva and deliciously kiss flushed.

“Fuck,” Mickey breathes. Ian presses the solid thing against him to indicate what he stopped for. “Oh, right.”

Mickey produces the gun, casual as anything, and tosses it across to the couch. It lands beside Ian's rejected box of cookies. He meets Mickey's gaze and raises an eyebrow.

“Shit, man, didn't know who the fuck was at the door, alright? Now you gonna fuckin' stand there all day, or you gonna get back on me?”

Ian laughs his silent laugh and pushes Mickey back onto the bed. He crawls over him, knees framing either side of Mickey's thighs, and leans forward, pressing him into the mattress as he kisses him again. Mickey makes a soft sound against his mouth that Ian can only take as approval, and he presses their hips together, feeling Mickey's cock start to take interest. Not gay his fuckin' ass.

Ian reaches his hand down and palms at Mickey's erection as if to prove his point, though any argument seems to have drained from him, and all he does is roll his hips up against Ian's hand with a shaky exhale. That's a nice noise. Ian thinks he can probably get better from him, though. He moves back to tug Mickey's tank up and over his head, shrugging out of his own hoody for good measure. Mickey tugs at the base of his green vest and looks up at Ian with blown pupils. He takes the hint and peels his that off as well. Throws them both to join Mickey's tank on the floor.

Ian catches Mickey looking at his mark again, at Mickey's own words standing dark and bold in contrast against his pale skin. His eyes do a quick skim over Mickey's torso, but he sees no accompanying mark. He supposes that makes sense. What words would Mickey have when they all die in the base of Ian's throat? He tries to ignore the twisty feeling that causes in his chest, focusing instead on getting their trousers off.

 _You got any lube?_ Ian mouths, mimicking squirting it out onto his fingers. Mickey looks at him like he's lost.

“The fuck?”

Ian closes his eyes. Takes a steadying breath. Tries not to lose patience with himself. He presses his finger against Mickey's chest and very slowly and purposefully traces out the letters L U B E.

“What- oh, lube, right, yeah.”

Mickey sits up and Ian watches him fumble with the top drawer a bit. As he does so, Ian amuses himself by kissing and licking at Mickey's throat, enjoying the way his breath hitches. He traces the shell of his ear with his tongue, breathing hot against it, then bites on the lobe. Mickey twitches beneath him, hips pressing more insistent against him.

He shoves the lube into Ian's hand impatiently and Ian's expression lights up with his soundless laughter again. He shifts further onto the bed, dragging Mickey around by his thighs and then pushing them apart. Mouths _relax_ as he starts slicking his fingers up, but he's not sure Mickey really gets what it's meant to be. Oh, well. Ian reaches down and strokes teasingly along his entrance. Mickey's hips lift a little in anticipation. Ian doesn't really have the patience to be a tease right now, not with his fucking soulmate beneath him, thighs spread and waiting, _fuck._ He slides his first finger in and watches as Mickey bites his lip, dark lashes fluttering. Fuck, he's hot.

Ian builds up to two fingers pretty quickly, but then he goes a touch slower. He wants to be in Mickey, wants to be pressed close, skin on skin, filling him and feeling Mickey hot and tight and squeezing around him, just the way he is on his fingers now. Wants that more than anything, but he also wants to have Mickey properly ready. Wants this to be just as good for him as it is for Ian. He's never had any complaints before, but he still takes the time to be more attentive with Mickey than he's been with anyone before him, even Kash. He twists his fingers, curls them up and drags them over Mickey's prostate, grins when Mickey twitches and whines beneath him. His cheeks flush and his eyes flick away, as if he's embarrassed he produced that kind of noise. Ian, asshole that he is, does it again, and again, until Mickey makes a similar noise. By which point he seems to have sussed Ian's game, and glares daggers up at him. Ian can only grin back.

It's only when he's up to three fingers and fucking them into Mickey hard and fast that Ian thinks he's finally ready for him. He uses his lube free hand and his teeth to tear the condom open, rolling it on as swift as he can. He hums; a low, pleasant sound as he strokes himself, slicking his cock up. Mickey watches through heavily lidded eyes, licking the corner of his mouth in a way that's far too attractive for such a simple gesture. Ian wants to chase his tongue back inside his mouth with his own, but he's too busy trailing the head of his cock along the crack of Mickey's ass. Mickey's thighs shift a touch further apart, as if he's not already spread wide for Ian. It's a nice sight. One he could definitely get used to.

Both of them moan when Ian pushes in. Mickey's is more drawn out, a touch of discomfort at the stretch, but Ian's prepped him well and he knows that while it's uncomfortable now, it shouldn't hurt. Just the brief stretch and burn while he adapts. Ian's moan is briefer, softer, a vibration low in his throat. He sets his jaw and forces himself not to slam in all at once, assuming from Mickey's earlier protests that he hasn't fucked a guy before. Ian eases in inch by inch until his hips are flush with Mickey's ass and he can feel him wrapped around the whole length of him.

Fuck. _Fuck_ , it's _good._

“Well,” Mickey says, after a stretch of time where Ian's just supporting himself over him, letting him adapt to being filled. “Fuckin' move, then.”

So Ian does. It's slow at first; the long drag out, followed by the steady press back in. Mickey makes little grunts and sighs beneath him, pressing his hips back, encouraging Ian. It doesn't take long for him to build up a quicker pace, slamming hard and fast into Mickey, shifting his hips every so often to try and get the right angle. When he does, Mickey's back arches off the bed.

*

Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuuuuuucccckkkkk._

It is more than Mickey is prepared for. Sure, there's the fuckin' burn and stretch of Ian pressing into him, because, y'know, havin' a foreign object up your fuckin' ass is gonna do that. He knows. He's tried toys, maybe not as long as Ian, but thicker. He can take that. Relishes the fuckin' burn, actually. Grounds him in the moment. Drags his mind away from overthinking.

Toys, however, did not prepare him for the heat, for the press of Ian's hips against his ass, his hands on his thighs, his hair falling over his forehead as those fuckin' eyes watch him. Mickey feels stripped and bare, not just literally, but like Ian is lookin' right into his head. Vulnerable. He feels vulnerable, and he hates it, but also kinda likes it, and it's a weird confusing mess but he can't think about it too much with Ian moving inside him, and he swears he can feel every fuckin' inch. Ian dragging out with delicious friction. Ian building pace until he's slamming into him and he's all Mickey can focus on; Ian, Ian's cock, getting fucked.

When Ian hits his prostate he arches from the bed, body tense in surprise at the sudden full on assault of pleasure. Fuck. _Fuck._

“Fuck.”

Ian somehow manages to look both cocky and pleased through his lusty expression, and Mickey can't even find it in him to be mad about it. He whines when Ian keeps the new angle, a sound he fuckin' hates but can't swallow down in time. So fuckin' embarrassing, writhing around and whimpering like he's some bitch in heat, but it's not far off how he feels. Ian lifts one of his thighs, holding it firm and using it as leverage as he ups his pace. Mickey watches his face contort with the effort, fair skin flushed red and sweat gleaming on his forehead. Then he has to close his eyes 'cause that's too fuckin' hot and he ain't ever gonna last lookin' at that.

Not that it makes much difference, for Ian's hand is on his cock shortly after, and he falls apart far too quickly with Ian wanking him in time to his thrusts. Never in his memory has Mickey came as hard as he does then. It starts at his hips, hot and tingling, and spreads through his stomach, down his arms and legs. He fists the sheets and his toes curl through air. He moans far too loudly, biting his lip to try and stifle it. Ian keeps stroking him through it, until it's too fuckin' much and he's trying to wriggle away from the touch, grunting in annoyed irritation.

Ian isn't far behind him, a few more thrusts and then he's leaning over him, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, breathing heavy and eyes closed as his body shakes with it. He stays there for several long seconds when he's done, holding himself on shaky arms, panting as he catches his breath. He opens his eyes slowly and grins down at Mickey. Mickey rolls his eyes, looks away, presses his knee against Ian's chest to encourage him to move the fuck back. Hopes Ian doesn't notice that his limbs are still shaking from the strength of his orgasm.

Ian pulls out. Mickey watches as he ties and tosses the condom into his waste paper bin. He leans down and licks Mickey's own come from his stomach, which is fuckin' gross, except it's kinda hot, but not quite enough to justify it. Not now, anyway. Maybe if he hadn't just come. Mickey pushes Ian's head away sharply.

“That's fuckin' gross.”

Ian looks up at him, a mixture of wounded and annoyed. Mickey don't got time for those fuckin' puppy dog eyes. He wriggles back onto his bed and settles for a satisfied smoke, closing his eyes and ignoring the noise of Ian moving around his room. Maybe he'll fuck off now. Good. Mickey shuts down any stirring of disappointment.

He opens his eyes when he feels a touch on his stomach. Ian's got toilet roll this time, and is gently wiping Mickey clean. There's a kind of tenderness to the touch that he's not used to, and it makes him tense. He don't fuckin' know how to deal with being touched like that, so he just lies still. Ian finishes cleaning him and throws the toilet roll in the bin as well. Then he brings over his fuckin' cookie box and pops the lid, holding it out for Mickey to take one.

“You make these?” Mickey asks, and Ian nods. “So you are fuckin' Betty Crocker, then.”

Ian rolls his eyes and pushes the box forward insistently.

“Alright, don't get your panties in a twist. I'll eat one of your fuckin' cookies.” Mickey takes a bite and carefully hides any enjoyment. Man, they're fuckin' good though. He's glad Ian leaves the box sitting between them. “So what's with the no talkin' thing? You always been like that?”

Ian shakes his head and retrieves his phone.

PTSD.

“Shit. What from?”

Long story.

“How long?”

Too long to type. Be here all day. :P

“Did you just use a fuckin' emoji? Y'know you're sitting right there. Just use your fuckin' face.”

Ian pulls a face, shutting one eye and sticking his tongue out, nose screwed up in a way that Mickey would not describe as cute, 'cept it fuckin' is. He punches him in the shoulder. Ian scowls and rubs at it.

“That ain't even the emoji you were usin', anyway.”

Ian flips him off. Mickey laughs.

“Well, Firecrotch, you're a decent fuck, but you know this don't change nothin'.”

Ian tilts his head questioningly.

“You, me, us; still can't happen.”

Why not?

“Gay in this neighbourhood? You gotta fuckin' deathwish?”

I've been out for years.

“Yeah. Well.” Mickey takes a long drag of his cigarette. Tries to keep the sick twist from his stomach, but can't. “My dad would literally kill me if he knew.”

So we don't tell him.

“Like it's that fuckin simple.”

You can't ignore this.

“Look, just... Piss off, alright. At least lemme think about it.”

Okay. But only if you give me your number.

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, but Ian is a persistent asshole, and just continues to hold the phone in his face until Mickey snatches it with irritation. He pokes at it with more aggression than necessary as he types his number in, not looking at Ian when he shoves it back. Still catches that stupid shiteating grin from the corner of his eye, though.

Ian rises and gets dressed. He presses a kiss to the top of Mickey's head before he leaves, like Mickey's a fuckin' kid or some shit, and Mickey slaps him away. It's only when Ian's gone and he's left alone in his room does he regret telling him to go.

It's only seconds after the front door has clicked shut that his phone lights up with a message:

_ Miss you already x _

*

_fck off._

_ When can I see you again? _

Ian grins at his phone as he walks home. Although when five minutes of staring at the screen have passed without a reply, his smile fades a touch, and he tucks the phone back into his pocket with a sigh. He supposes, to an extent, he can understand Mickey's issue with the gay thing. Fuck, once upon a time he'd been concerned about telling _his_ family, who, bar his parents, had always been supportive.

He's heard all the stories about Mickey's family. Supportive is not a word that he would associate with Terry Milkovich.

Still. It's not like he's asking Mickey to stand in the street and loudly proclaim his homosexual tendencies. He just wants to spend some time with his soulmate; get to know him, maybe do a bit more kissing, maybe have sex again. Cuddling. They should probably cuddle next time. Ian thinks that's a very soulmates thing to do. Also, dating. A proper, official date where they wear nice shirts and eat food. With _utensils_. It's not like anyone else needs to know it's a date.

Shit.

He wonders what Mickey's thinking about him. Is he disappointed? That he's got a weird mate who can't speak. Like, fuck, PTSD is only one of his issues. Ian wonders how long he should wait before dropping the bipolar bomb. Is that something you disclose early or is that like a personal detail he should withhold until, like, their third date or something?

He spends a good deal of his evening thinking about this, and checking his phone compulsively. It's awful. Mickey's all he can think about, and he just keeps wondering when he's going to get a message, but clearly Mickey doesn't feel quite the same urgency. Well, that's... Typical. Of course Ian would get paired with someone who isn't as invested in him as he is in them. Like anything in his life goes accordingly.

He's lying in the van listening to music too loudly on his headphones when his phone vibrates for the third time that evening (once an alarm reminder to take his meds, another a text from Fiona saying she's working late at the diner). This time it's Mickey, and Ian can't help but grin stupidly at his phone. At least there's no one to see his fuckin' idiot overreaction.

_dnt knw._

_ How about tomorrow? ;) _

_egar_

_ Of course I'm fucking eager. Been waiting my whole life for this. _

_gay_

_ Yeah.  _

_ Excuse me for wanting to get to know my soulmate. _

_sht up_

_ Why??? It's the truth!!!! _

_i dnt gtta mark_

Ian frowns. He thinks of several ways to reply to that, hands shaking a touch. He glares at them. Fuckin' hates that. Always shake after his meds, too. Hateful. Reminds him of his weakness.

_firecrtch?_

_ Ouch. _

_ouch?_

_ Yeah, not like the inability to talk is a fucking tender topic or anything. ):< _

It's several long minutes before Mickey replies, and Ian's beginning to think he may be in for another few hours wait. The response surprises him.

_sry_

_ It's fine. _

_wats it lik?_

_ Weird. Like I know how to talk and I move my mouth and I expect it to work cause it's like fucking walking right? You don't think about that shit. But then nothing comes out. Idk how to explain it. Like all the words get to the bottom of my throat and don't make it out. _

_sux_

_ Yeah. _

_ Least you know I def can't out you to anyone. :) _

_haha asshole_

_ So when can I see you again??? _

_wen u free_

_Gimme a time/place _

_tmrw?_

_ Perfect!!! :D _

*

Mickey don't know what the fuck he's doin', but what he does know is he sure as hell don't wanna stop. He's seen Ian three times since their first hook up; twice have been at his house for sex, with Ian lingering afterwards, probing for more information. The quiet is nice (people who talk too much get on Mickey's fuckin' nerves), and he likes that he can still get a sense of Ian's personality. That he's a sarcastic shit with witty comebacks and well capable of holding his own against Mickey's attitude. He appreciates that. He's not lovin' the twenty question thing (all dumb fuckin' questions like what kinda food he likes or his favourite movie or about his fuckin' siblings, like his family is really somethin' he wants to discuss lyin' naked in bed with his come still dryin' on his stomach, no fuckin thanks), but he does like Ian's company. Likes the warmth of him curled against his side. He also likes the fact that when Ian starts trash talking Seagal for fuckin' Van Damme, he can just swipe the phone from his hands and hold it outta reach.

“What's that? Seagal could totally kick Van Damme's ass? Strangle that motherfucker with his powerful ponytail? Man, I'm so glad you agree.”

Ian glares at him, makes a low annoyed growl noise that's not meant to be hot but is, then tickles him until Mickey screams, tosses the phone, and elbows Ian in the face all in quick succession. Fuckin' hates that the asshole discovered how ticklish the soft skin of his stomach is so fuckin' early, with his bullshit soft kisses all over Mickey's torso when he shoulda just been suckin' his cock like any normal horny gay teen would be doin'. But nah, Ian's all for explorin' him like he wants to map him out with his hands and his fuckin' mouth.

Though the sex is fuckin' great. Mickey's finally learning the appeal, after a brief history of disappointing hetsex experiences. Really loves the satisfaction following a good fuck, and _fuck_ does Ian deliver. He seems hell bent on torturing Mickey's prostate until he's sensitive and squirming every time, and that's before he even gets his dick in him. Mickey ain't gonna lie, he's definitely a fan of those long fingers, but they give Ian too much fuckin' power and he's well aware of it, the lanky ginger shit. And his cock, well, it ain't like Mickey's had any others to compare, but he thinks Ian's cock must be damn near perfect. Least a solid 9.5/10 (cause there's always room for fuckin' improvement, alright?).

He thinks, maybe, if it were just the sex, things would be okay, but it ain't just sex. It's Ian's fuckin' smile that makes his blue-green eyes crinkle, and that weird sort of breathy sound that's his version of a laugh. It's the way Ian touches him, light and affectionate, without even thinkin' about it, like he ain't even aware but his body just needs to be in constant fuckin' contact with Mickey. He doesn't tense away from the touches any more, but it's still weird as hell to be held tenderly, to have fingers strokin' through his hair and light kisses pressed on his temple, Ian tracing shapes on his back or rubbing his belly. Yeah, it's fuckin' nice, but still so far from what he's used to. Ian Gallagher is so, so far from what he's used to. Being with him only seems to make sense when they're together. Once he's gone Mickey's half convinced he's some wet dream his mind has concocted, and the rest of the time he's questioning how the fuck he could have a soulmate so fuckin' ideal. There must have been a fuck up. Like, it doesn't add up.

Mickey sure as hell ain't convinced he deserves Ian. Either there's some fatal flaw of Ian's he don't know about yet, or there's been a mistake. Like maybe Ian's his ideal person but there's a different mate for Ian, and that's why Mickey don't got no mark. Like maybe Ian'll get his voice back but his words will never show on Mickey's skin and then he'll have to admit it. He wouldn't even be surprised. He don't get nice things. He don't get to be happy. That just ain't his life.

He should probably shut it down now. Save himself. Each time he starts to talk himself into this, Ian kisses him or touches him or even fuckin' texts, which isn't quite the same as bein' there, but kinda still feels like he is since that's their main communication anyway, and Mickey is sucked in again. Even if there is a time limit on this, he decides he's gonna make the fuckin' best of it while he has the chance.

Which is how, on the third of those three occasions, he finds himself on a date with Ian. Wearin' a blue button down even though they're only in a fuckin' Sizzlers. He feels overdressed and self conscious. Keeps rubbing his lower lip, nervous tick. It doesn't help that Ian's just beaming across the table at him. He keeps feelin' like there's eyes on him, like everyone _knows,_ 'cause why else would two guys be wearing dress shirts just to eat steaks?

_ Relax. _

“You fuckin' relax.”

_ I'm very relaxed.  _

Mickey flips him off. Ian breathy laughs.

_ You look good.  _

Mickey glares at him. Ian rolls his eyes.

_ Just text me back. That way no one can overhear anything gay and it won't even look like we're paying attention to each other. _

That... Makes a lotta fuckin' sense, actually. They could be out for a meetin'. Just two guys havin' dinner and ignoring each other for technology. That looks a whole lot less gay than Ian silently grinning across the table at him while Mickey cracks his knuckles and tells him to fuck off every five minutes.

_ok_

_u luk gd 2_

He does. He's wearing a dark, mossy green shirt that looks soft and well worn, probably thrifted. Mickey likes him in that colour. It makes his eyes look really green. He's learned, through close observation, that Ian's eyes are actually blue with a ring of orange/yellow around the pupil. This combination seems to mean that in a lot of lighting they look green, and when he pointed this mindfuck out, Ian told him most people just think his eyes are green because of it. Of course nothin' about Ian Gallagher is fuckin' plain.

_ Thanks :) x _

_th fckin x necessary?_

_ Well I can't kiss you but I wanna so it's the next best thing.  _

_ Xxxxxxxxxxxxx _

_ur so fckin gay_

_ That colour looks really good on you. It makes your eyes look brighter.  _

_nt ny less gay_

_ Is it gay to compliment my boyfriend? Wow. This is news to me. _

Mickey's eyebrows drift up towards his hairline in shock. Boyfriend? Since when the fuck were they boyfriends? They never discussed this. He definitely didn't agree to this.

_byfrnd???????_

_ Well we're on a date.  _

_ I have no plans to see anyone else. :) _

Mickey stares across the table at him, eyes angry and eyebrows still high, mouth parted in confused irritation. Ian's easy smile falters, and he tips his head like a puppy that's not sure why he's being scolded.

_ Do you not want to be? ): _

_jst weird_

_snds weird_

_ Do you want to see me again? _

_obv_

_Are you gonna see other guys?_

“Fuck no.” He doesn't mean to exclaim it with such force, and it's not only Ian who glances at him, but the couple seated across from them, startled by the sudden outburst after their previous silence. Mickey fuckin' glares daggers until they look away.

_ Other girls? _

_no asshole_

_ Then what are we? _

_y th fck we gt 2 b nythin?_

_ Mickey. ): _

_wat_

_ I want you to be my boyfriend.  _

_ I want to be your boyfriend. _

_fckin fine u dick_

_You love my dick ;) xxx_

Well, he's not wrong.

*

Ian is pretty sure he's gonna die. Like, his brain is just gonna give up from lack of blood, because it's all in his dick right now. The sight of Mickey Milkovich riding him is just _too much._ It's definitely one of the hottest damn things he's ever seen, and if he dies now, he thinks it's not a bad way to go out. Not a bad fucking way at all.

His hands are on Mickey's hips, not so much guiding his movements but just moving with him. He's rolling his own hips up into Mickey, because he's not lazy, and he likes to be an active participant in sex, likes to make sure he's making Mickey feel good, even when Mickey's taking control. There's a flush that goes all the way down Mickey's neck and is starting to stain into his chest from the effort, and his thighs are quivering a touch; this is a new strain for them, and Ian finds it even more intoxicating because he's the only person Mickey's ever done this for.

Mickey's head is tipped back and he's biting his lip like he's trying not to make noise. Ian hates that. He knows he's mostly silent beyond little grunts and heavy breathing, but that's not a choice. If he could talk he's certain there'd just be a waterfall of praise for Mickey rolling out of his mouth, telling him how hot he looks and how good he feels around Ian and how this is all fuckin' perfect. Not that Ian's asking for dirty talk. He just likes the little noises Mickey makes.

Like the keening moan that escapes when he rolls down against Ian and must manage to hit his prostate. He starts riding him with a fresh urgency, and Ian takes one hand from Mickey's hip to come to his cock instead, stroking him fast and firm. When Mickey comes it's with such force that it shoots up across Ian's chest in a line. He feels marked. He fucking loves it. His hands move back to Mickey's hips, grasp hard, and he's fucking up into him in short, fast movements. Mickey moans as Ian fucks him through the fresh sensitivity following his orgasm. It's only half a minute or so before he's coming as well, pulling Mickey down and grinding into him.

They cuddle, afterwards. Something Mickey used to kind of grudgingly accept from him. Letting Ian touch him as he pleased, but staying kind of tense and stiff. He's more relaxed now, though. Tangling his legs with Ian's when Ian slips one between his. Resting his head against Ian's shoulder. He can't help but grin, hugging Mickey close and nuzzling against his hair, breathing in the scent of him. Fuck, he loves that smell. Beneath the smoke and cheap shampoo. Just the smell of _Mickey_. After a while, Ian fumbles for his phone. Mickey produces it from beneath the pillow with a yawn and hands it to him.

That was fuckin hot.

Mickey snorts.

Really Mickey that was really fucking hot

You know how good you look riding me??

Too good.

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey punches him in the chest, but his words are muffled against Ian's shoulder, where he's buried his head.

Don't be embarrassed

“I ain't fuckin' embarrassed. Jesus. Shut up.”

Not talkin.

“You know what I mean, smart guy.”

But seriously. Real fuckin hot.

Mickey punches him again. Ian huffs. Mickey rubs the tender spot afterwards, though, so it's okay.

My family keep asking about you.

“What?” Mickey tenses beside him.

Don't worry. They dunno who you are. Just asking bout my soulmate.

“Like it's their fuckin' business.”

I'd like you to meet them.

“No fuckin' way.” Mickey sits up. Ian immediately misses the heat along his side. “No, nuh-uh. Goin' on a date was fuckin' bad enough. I ain't doin' the meet the parents crap.”

No parents. My mom's long gone and Frank's probably passed out in a gutter somewhere.

“What the fuck ever. The whole fuckin' Brady bunch clan you got goin' on over there. No way. Ain't happening.”

Ian sighs, annoyed, but drops it. It takes a bit of coaxing, but he finally gets Mickey to lie against him again. He can feel how tense his smaller body is, though. Still wound up. Ian gently rubs at his back, working the tense muscles beneath his fingertips until he feels Mickey start to relax.

*

Mickey jerks awake to a sudden sound in the night, arms raised protectively; groggy but ready to fight. He glares blearily into the dark, and it takes a few moments for his sleep saturated brain to fuckin' kick into gear and connect the noise with his phone. The fuck? What asshole is callin' him at fuckin'... nearly 3am. _Jesus_.

It's Ian. Of fuckin' course it is.

“The fuck you doin' callin' at this time-a night for?”

All he can hear is Ian's shaky breathing on the other side of the line. Then he remembers Ian can't talk, which should be fuckin' obvious, but it's something he forgets a lot, actually. Like somehow he's hearin' Ian's voice when he reads the notes on his phone. Mickey yawns; loud and long. The phone buzzes in his hand and he moves it back to see Ian has sent him a text.

_ Nightmare. Wanted to hear your voice. _

Mickey's stomach does an embarrassing twist; a mixture of worry and giddiness he'd never fuckin' admit in a hundred years, not even under torture.

“Shit man, you okay?”

He can hear the dull tap of Ian typing on the other side. The familiarity of it is comforting, lulls the remaining anger from him.

_ No. I dunno. Been a while. _

“PTSD shit?”

_ Yeah. _

“Wanna talk 'bout it?”

_ No. _

“You think that's why you got the whole silent thing?”

_ Don't see the point in dragging up the past. It happened, it's over. I just wanna let it go. _

“That bad?”

_ Just a lotta fucked up shit piling up.  _

_ Turned out the reason it all seemed so fucked up is 'cause I was actually fucked up. _

“Yeah? Ain't we all.”

_ No, but I really am. I'm wrong, Mickey. I'm broken. _

“You ain't broken,” Mickey says. There's a long pause where all he can hear is Ian's breath rattling down the line. He wonders if Ian's fuckin' fallen asleep on him, and he's about to cut the call and go back to bed himself when the next text buzzes onto his screen.

_ I'm bipolar. _

“The fuck is that?”

_ It's a mental illness. _

“You tellin' me you're crazy?” Ian's breathing catches. Another long pause. “Ian?”

_ I'm not crazy. _

_ I'm sick. It's a disease. _

_ I didn't ask for this.  _

Well, fuck. He's gone and fucked up and said the wrong fuckin' thing, surprise surprise. _Well done, Mick. Can you do anything right?_ He can tell Ian is upset. Even without the tone of his voice, Mickey just fuckin' knows.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean- I'm not good at this shit.”

_ It's fine. :) _

_ I'm sorry I woke you.  _

_ Go back to sleep x _

Ian cuts the call and Mickey is plunged into sudden silence. It sounds real fuckin' loud in the absence of Ian's breathing. Shit. Ian's probably reliving something shitty and traumatic and all he wanted was to hear Mickey's voice and his stupid ass went and made him feel worse.

Mickey sighs, rubbing his eyes. He calls Ian back twice and gets no answer, finally throwing his phone aside in irritation.

*

Ian's breathing is rattly and uneven with tears. He runs his hands through his hair, catches the strands and pulls, sharply. The pain grounds him, but only briefly. His head is a whirring mess. Keeps seeing the images from his dream. Worse, keeps feeling it, the insistent fear the paranoia brought on, the certainty he was in danger, the cloying panic in his throat.

He swallows thickly. Lowers his shaking hands. Scrubs a palm roughly over his cheek to rub the tears away.

Right now, he thinks Mickey could be spot on. Right now, he feels real fuckin' crazy.

Thinking that is dangerous. He tells himself, over and over, _I'm not crazy I'm just sick I'm not crazy I'm just sick I'm not crazy crazy crazy._ He's not sure he believes it.

Ian puts his phone on mute and turns it so the screen is facing downwards. He inhales shakily. His fingers rub over the burn scar on the palm of his left hand. He feels months of progress slip from his grasp.

He spends a long time just silently crying in the dark of the Gallagher living room, curled into the armchair and shaking. It's only partly due to the cold. When he finally lifts his phone again, he has three missed calls from Mickey, one voice mail, and five texts.

_Im sry_

_Pls ansr_

_Luk u knw im no gd wit this emo shit_

_im wrried bout u_

_ur nt crazy_

Ian sniffs. Feels the word crazy like a physical slap all over again. Regrets telling Mickey, but it had to come up at some point. Pretending is nice, but not honest.

He listens to the voicemail.

“Look, I don't know if you've gone back to bed or not – if you have, I hope you don't have any more shit dreams an' I guess I'll talk to you in the mornin' – but, I'm fuckin' sorry, alright? I ain't dealt with this shit before. I didn't know how to fuckin' react, and I ran my mouth without thinkin'. I don't think you're crazy, Ian. You know that.”

_ It's ok. I shouldn't have just thrown it at you. _

_U ok?_

_ I will be, _

_tel me bout it_

_ About the bipolar? _

_Yeh_

_ It's manic depression. _

_Evry1 here depresed hw cn u nt b_

_ It's not just feeling low. It's like feeling really good like the best high every. Lots of energy really horny really inspired. _

_Snds gr8_

_ Except I kept doing things on impulse. Hooking up without thinking about it or taking risks. Stupid shit. _

_Ok_

_ Then the depression is lying in bed for days unable to move not wanting to live kind of low. _

_Shit_

_Yeah. _

_Y u nt tel me?_

_ Because you'd think I was crazy. _

_):_

_ You hate emojis. _

_H8 upstin u_

_ It's fine.  _

_Nt_

_ I'm on meds for it now anyway. Gotta take them all the fuckin time. Three times a day for the rest of my life. Bullshit. _

_Ive nvr sen u tke thm_

_ Didn't want you to know until I told you. Are you mad? _

_No_

_ Do you feel different bout me now? _

_No!!!!!! dumbass_

_u stil wna tlk?_

_ Yeah _

Mickey's name flashes across the screen. Incoming call. Ian answers this time. His illness isn't mentioned again, and he let's Mickey's voice calm him, keeping him grounded until the first hints of dawn light spill through the window.

*

It’s been fuckin’ months and ‘sides that one lil hiccup with Ian’s bipolar reveal, things are goin’ well. Real fuckin’ well. Mickey’s _happy_ , in a real, genuine, complete way he can’t remember bein’, well, shit, _ever_. Things don’t go well for him. He’s still waitin’ for the whole thing to come crashin’ down around him, but so far so fuckin’ good. He ain’t gonna complain.

Ian’s on his couch, drinking beer and smoking while Mickey takes a tray of pizza rolls from the oven. Alright, so it ain’t no fancy three course meal or shit, but he knows Ian’s always lookin’ to hang out with him, more than just the brief cuddle after their fuck sessions. Mickey still ain’t comfortable with the public thing, especially since Ian (the fuckin’ asshole) thought it’d be real funny to blow him in the back of the movie theatre last time they went out. Like, yeah, it was hot as hell, but he felt like he was gonna have a fuckin’ heart attack the whole time from the fear someone might see them.

Not worth it.

So he’d invited Ian over for what is, essentially, a fuckin’ sleepover. What the fuck ever. If he wants his boyfriend to stay the night, he totally can. That’s what people in relationships do, and he’s come to accept that’s what he is now. Man in a relationship, an’ fuckin’ lovin’ it. Shit.

Ian looks up at him with a lopsided grin, glancing at the tray of pizza rolls, then Mickey’s faded floral oven gloves. He waggles his eyebrows. Mickey kicks his shin.

“Shut the fuck up. An’ don’t touch ‘em until they cool down. You got enough burn marks on your hands already.”

Ian flips him off, still grinning, and Mickey bends to kiss him before dropping onto the couch beside him. It takes all of four seconds before Ian’s arm slips around his shoulders and pulls him closer. Fuckin’ clingy dork. If he lays his head against Ian's shoulder, well, that's just 'cause it's fuckin' more comfortable that way. Fuck you.

The pizza rolls are long gone and they're halfway through the first film of what Mickey fully intends to be a Seagal marathon, because he feels it necessary to educate Ian, who obviously just don't _understand_ why Seagal is far more fuckin' kickass than Van Damme. Fuck Van Damme. Ian, however, seems to have other ideas. He keeps dotting kisses along Mickey's jaw, tryin' to temp him into making out. Which, alright, ain't that hard.

He's got Mickey sprawled on top of him within minutes, squeezing his ass while Mickey's sucking a bruise into his throat. There's worse ways to pass a Thursday night.

He doesn't hear the front door open, but he sure as hell hears it slam shut. He jumps so suddenly and with such bone deep terror that he falls right off the fuckin' couch, landing in a mess of empty beer bottles and banging his elbow on the glass ashtray. His heart is beatin' right in the base of his throat, and for a second he struggles to breathe around it. Convinced it's gonna be Terry. Convinced-

“Mickey, what the fuck?”

“Mandy?” He pushes himself up in to a sitting position to see his sister staring at him in open confusion. The left side of her face is mottled in bruising, and her lip looks like it's healing from a recent split. Her eyes move from him, up to Ian. Then she screams.

“Ian!”

Mickey looks up at Ian, wondering what the fuck he's done to deserve such a fuckin' excited response. Ian's not lookin' at him. He smiles sheepishly at Mandy and raises his hand in greeting. She dashes across the room and leans over the back of the couch to hug him. He squeezes her back, and Mickey feels a brief flash of jealousy that don't even make fuckin' sense.

“When did you get back? Shit, are you on leave or what? You look good.”

“He can't fuckin' talk, Mands.”

“Course he can.” Mandy looks at Ian for confirmation. His smile never falters, but he shakes his head.

“He can't, he's got fuckin' selective mutism. PTSD thing.” He feels almost smug in the knowledge that he knows somethin' about Ian that she don't.

“Shit.” Mandy glances at Ian, who nods. She hugs him close again, before pulling back and punching him in the shoulder. Ian's lips part in shock. Mickey sits straighter, automatically defensive. “The fuck you doin' with my brother?”

Then she turns and promptly punches Mickey in the shoulder as well. He's almost certain his punch is a whole lot fuckin' harder than Ian's. He hisses and draws away, rubbing the tender area.

“The fuck, bitch?”

“Don't fuckin' _bitch_ me, assface. Why the fuck didn't you tell me you were into guys?”

“I'm not-”

“Don't even, Mickey. Just- Don't even. I saw you all over him like a fuckin' rash. And this-” She points at the obvious, fresh bruise on Ian's neck. He grins almost proudly. Traitor. “So don't even try an' say you ain't. What, you think I'd be mad?”

Mickey ducks his head. Mandy was never who he was worried about.

“Didn't want dad to know,” he mumbles. Mandy punches him again. “Will you fuckin' stop that?”

“I wouldn't have told dad, you fuckin' asshole.”

“Yeah. I get that, but it didn't make it any easier... In this house... To- Y'know. I didn't wanna admit it out loud, I guess.”

Mandy rolls her eyes.

“Knowin' you're fuckin' cute guys is nowhere near as scarrin' as knowin' you fucked Angie Zago.” Ian's head tilts with interest, and his eyes move to Mickey. Mickey feels himself flush. He wants to fuckin' kill Mandy and her big mouth right there and then. “And well done you, aimin' outta your league.”

Mickey kicks at her ankles. She slaps him 'round the head, hard, no fuckin' playin'. He flinches away.

“Ain't you meanta be in Philly with that douchebag of yours?”

“That's over.”

“Good.” Mickey looks at the injured side of Mandy's face, then meets her eyes, meaningful. She nods, silent appreciation. Then clears her throat in a way that says _topic closed._

“So, how did you two of all people end up together?”

“He, uh.” Mickey glances to Ian and raises his eyebrows. Ian just looks back at him expectantly. “He's my fuckin' soulmate, Mands.”

“Oh my god! No way. No fuckin' way. Alright. I need to know everything.”

Once Mandy learns Ian communicates via text chat, she spends the evening catching up with him, the two of them with their heads together and old jokes Mickey don't understand and gigglin'. Mickey's still a touch jealous of how well she and Ian seem to get on, and he mourns the loss of their date night, but there's a weight been lifted he didn't even realise he was fuckin' carrying. It's not a big coming out. Fuck, it's just Mandy, but it's something. It's someone.

After a while, he gets back on the couch and sits beside Ian. Ian takes his hand and holds it in his like it's no big deal. For the first time, Mickey wonders if maybe it's not.

*

“So, uh, you're really not gonna tell us who the guy is until he gets here?” Lip looks across the table at Ian, both of them laying out plates for dinner. Ian grins at him and nods. “What if we react badly?”

Ian scowls. Lip raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Kidding.”

“Stop teasin' Ian, I'm sure he's nervous enough,” says Fiona.

She is wrong. Ian is not nervous. He has never been more calm and sure of anything in his life as he is of Mickey Milkovich. His only concern is that Mickey will be nervous, and that his family might scare him off before Ian can even get him in the fuckin' door. He's been waiting patiently for this. Never pushed Mickey. Never tried to convince him to come against his own will.

“I guess, since Mandy knows now, it's only fair your family does too,” Mickey had said one night as they lay in the afterglow, Ian tracing patterns on his arm. He had sat up, stared at Mickey with barely concealed excitement. “Don't make it a big fuckin' deal, Ariel.”

It is a big deal, though. He knows how uncomfortable Mickey is about his sexuality, or more specifically, with anyone else knowing. He's already made all his family swear they won't go spreading it around when they meet his mate. They're all honour bound to secrecy.

“I'm excited to meet him,” Debbie says, setting out glasses. “He makes Ian really happy. I can't wait to see who's to thank for that.”

She smiles at him, and Ian beams right back, suddenly so fiercely grateful for his family. They might not be picture perfect; they might be dysfunctional at the best of times, sometimes at each other's throats, other times sick of being constantly boxed in on top of each other, but thick or thin, he knows he's supported. Especially now, that his meds are balanced and they're no longer afraid he's a threat to himself, that he's finally just _Ian_ again and not _sick._ He loves them and he can't wait to invite Mickey in to their little bubble.

_Outsde_

_ Be right there! _

Ian jogs across the living room and pulls open the front door. Mickey is standing by the gate, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like he's already regretting this and he might bolt at any second. Ian smiles broadly at him and waves. Mickey visibly relaxes a bit, rolling his eyes at Ian's enthusiasm before he trudges up the path. Ian grabs his belt loops and drags him inside. In the narrow rectangle between front door and living room, he takes advantage of the only privacy they'll have all night to kiss Mickey. Mickey leans into the kiss briefly, before pulling away.

You look good!!

“You've fuckin' seen me in this before.” Mickey's wearing the same outfit he wore on their Sizler date.

Yeah and you looked good then too ;)

“Alright ya fuckin' sop, can we just get this over with?”

Ian takes his hand, and he half expects Mickey to pull free from his touch, but he doesn't. He lets Ian interlock their fingers and squeezes back like the touch is a lifeline. Ian rubs gentle circles with his thumb in a silent attempt at comfort.

Carl is the first to look up as they cross the living room, his expression confused.

“What is Mickey Milkovich doin' here?”

That's enough to get everyone else to look around.

Ian makes a series of small, choked off noises that are supposed to be him clearing his throat for attention. Not that he needs to. All the Gallagher eyes are already on him. He holds up his and Mickey's joined hands and smiles broadly. No one says anything for several long seconds. No one moves.

Ian's smile starts to falter.

*

He fuckin' knew this was a bad idea. A truly Awful idea with a capital fuckin' A. This thought is only reinforced five times over as he stands in the Gallagher living room, with five sets of eyes on him. Fuck, even the lil black kid is gawkin' at him like he's some prime attraction at the motherfuckin' freak show. Mickey feels his body tense. He's puffing himself up, defensive stance, curling in to a bulldog like pose of aggression. His hold on Ian's hand tightens. Ian squeezes back.

“Mickey, hey,” Fiona says, eventually. Her voice seems to break their frozen moment, and the rest of Ian's family finish laying the table as she moves into the living room. Her hands are in her pockets, and she looks between Ian and him before grinning. “Excuse our surprise, but Ian's kept you a big secret until now. Congratulations.”

Mickey blinks at her, wondering what the fuck she's talkin' about.

“Congratulations for what?”

“Y'know.” Fiona's eyes flick to Ian again. “Finding your mate?”

Ian is beaming once more. His eyes crinkled with the force of his smile. He's a fuckin' idiot and Mickey feels something in his chest loosen at the sight, settle.

“Right. Yeah.” He can't quite manage a smile, but Fiona seems to understand. She gives his arm a brief squeeze and nods back towards the kitchen. “Come on in. Dinner's almost ready. Ian can introduce you.”

Ian can't fuckin' introduce him 'cause Ian can't fuckin' talk, but he's told Mickey enough about his siblings that he can pick 'em out, anyway. 'Sides, it's fuckin' South Side, everyone knows everyone, and everyone knows the fuckin' Gallaghers. Still, he allows Ian to walk around the table, pointing at each of his siblings' heads as they round off their own names in a kind of weird fuckin' role call.

“Carl.”

“Debbie.”

“Lip, and this here is Liam.”

“Right. Well, you all fuckin' know who I am, so I'm gonna skip the role call bullshit,” Mickey says. Lip smirks, and both Carl and Debbie laugh. He takes that as a win. Shit. Besides the first stunned seconds that went on far too fuckin' long, this ain't actually a disaster so far. Ian's family ain't makin' a huge deal out of it, just helpin' Fiona dish out lasagne as Ian motions for Mickey to sit next to him.

“Ian says you just ran into each other on the street one day,” Fiona says, as she takes her seat.

“Yeah, fuckin' skippy here was out for his mornin' jog. Nearly sent me flyin'.”

“I remember that day. Ian was so cute. He came back early and was all flustered tryna make cookies.” Debbie grins across at her brother and Ian rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner, but doesn't look particularly embarrassed.

Worked, didn't it?

“Might have been more to do with my words on your chest than your fuckin' cookies, Betty Crocker.”

You like my cookies!!

“Yeah, alright.”

For all the shit he's heard about the Gallaghers, they ain't actually that bad. He guess ghetto trash talk paints reputations based on little fact. Frank and some of the bullshit they go through makes it sound like the Gallagher home is a fuckin' mad house, but Mickey don't think it is. It's cluttered but clean, and warm, welcoming in a way the Milkovich house could never be.

He doesn't talk too much during dinner, but there's enough mess of conversation at the table that he doesn't feel awkward about his silence. Some of the conversation floats around stories of younger Ian; his ROTC days and how he used to be covered in freckles, how he burns in the sun and bruises like a peach, how he can run six minute miles and do more push-ups than anyone should really wanna fuckin' do, Mickey thinks. He notices that Ian's illness is never mentioned, or any of the events surrounding his PTSD.

“I mean, I knew Ian would bring home a guy since he was like, what? Ten, eleven?” Lip says.

“Yeah? That early?” Fiona asks.

“That's when he got his Justin Timberlake crush. Had that big poster of him over his bed.”

“Oh my god, yeah! I forgot about that!”

Mickey glances at Ian just in time to catch the tips of his ears goin' red, and he can't help but laugh.

“Justin, eh?” His grin only widens when Ian elbows him.

I was young and it was only like a few months

“That's true, unlike Ed Sheeran. He's been runnin, what, three years now?” Lip's grin is massive and shit eating.

“I didn't know Ian had a crush on Ed Sheeran.” Debbie's head swivels to Ian with bright eyes, like she's feasting on this new information. Storing it away for fuckin' leverage later.

“Man, Ed Sheeran? Ain't that basically like havin' a crush on yourself?” Mickey chips in, enjoying the light blush on Ian's face.

I don't have a crush on Ed Sheeran. I just appreciate what he's done for me.

“What he's done for you?”

Between him and Ron Weasley they made being ginger cool again.

“Sorry to pop your bubble, Red, but being ginger ain't ever been, nor will it ever be, cool.”

Ian scowls and flips Mickey off, with his real fuckin' finger and all, no emoji.

They drink beer and watch TV after dinner. Carl asks him questions about guns that he ain't too thrilled about answering with Fiona's dark eyes flicking over to watch him every few minutes. Liam only refers to him as “Icky”, but sits beside him on the couch and rests his head against Mickey's arm while he's drinkin' his juice. No one even blinks when Ian drops on his other side, throws an arm around his shoulder and kisses his cheek. Don't even glance away from the fuckin' TV.

It's only when he's halfway through his beer, with Liam starting to nap against him, and Ian rubbin' little circles with his thumb against the back of his neck, he realises he's fuckin' relaxed. Full and sleepy, and his guards are down. He's in a room full of people with Ian touchin' him casually, but he feels fuckin' safe.

He wonders what it would be like if they could always be like this.

*

Ian's mouth is dry when he stirs. Mickey is still sleeping soundly on his chest, each breath a soft puff of air against the base of Ian's neck. He smiles, presses his face to the top of Mickey's head and inhales the scent of him, before gently easing Mickey off him. Mickey rolls onto his stomach and nuzzles his face against the pillow instead. Ian strokes Mickey's hair back from his face and ensures the blanket is up around his shoulders.

He stretches his arms above his head and yawns, curling his shoulder blades in and curving his back until he feels the satisfying crack. Smiling to himself, Ian catches his boxers with his toe and kicks them up. He catches them easily and steps into them, shimmying them up his hips. He checks his phone and finds he's slept through his meds reminder. Mm, water and maybe some food, then.

He's taken his meds with two slices of toast and is on his way back to Mickey's room when the front door opens. He expects Mandy, but instead a guy he's never seen before comes through. He pauses at the sight of Ian, whose hand is resting on Mickey's door, and just stares blankly at him. Ian swallows, feeling his own heart beat double time. He ain't afraid for himself, but more for Mickey's reaction to someone catching him like this.

“The fuck are you?” the guy asks. Ian blinks at him, unable to answer. “You screwin' my brother or something?”

His face must betray something, because the guy's head slowly tips to the side, and his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Shit, really?”

Ian shrugs, sheepish.

“Well?”

Ian indicates his throat, then shakes his head. As usual, he expects this brief display of charades to go misunderstood, but apparently the guy is sharper than he looks.

“Can't talk?” He waits for Ian's nod before continuing. “Man, that's shit. You gotta fuckin' listen to Mick all the time, then? Asshole has a big enough mouth when you can tell him to shut the fuck up, can't imagine what you gotta listen to.”

That surprises one of Ian's breathy wheeze laughs from him, and the guy seems to delight in the sound.

“That's fuckin' hilarious, man. I'm Iggy, by the way. Mick's brother. Yo, I got what's meant to be some pretty fuckin' good weed here. You wanna smoke up and I can tell you embarassin' stories 'bout Mickey?”

That offer is too good to resist. Ian nods in eager agreement.

“Cool. Maybe put some pants on first though, yeah man?”

Ian returns to Iggy less than a minute later, in a pair of soft, worn joggers that belong to Mickey. He's zipping up his hoody as he drops onto the empty half of the couch, but Iggy's eyes catch the dark lettering on his skin before he gets it the whole way.

“Woah, wait, shit man, hold up. That.” He points a finger and Ian glances down at his mark. “You Mickey's soulmate?”

Ian feels safe enough to nod. Iggy seems alright so far, and he ain't showed any sign that he has an issue with Ian banging his brother. So he bobs his head. There's a smile on his face; soft, dorky, incredibly fond. He can't help it.

Iggy beams back at him.

“Fuckin' hell. I thought maybe he was havin' a bicurious stage or some shit, but nah, he's like deep level gay. Soul gay. This is fuckin' golden. Like, don't get me wrong, man. I ain't got no issue or anything with it. I mean, ain't got my mark yet, for all I know it could turn out to be some guy. Just that this is gonna be so much better for takin' the piss outta Mickey. No mean feelin's or anything, but y'know how funny he gets when he's mad.”

Ian laughs his breathy laugh again. Iggy grins broadly.

I'm Ian.

“You one of those Gallaghers?”

Yeah

“Thought you looked familiar. Huh, fuckin' chances, ey? You a new thing, then?”

Yeah

“How'd you avoid meetin' before?”

Dunno

“Small world, man.” Iggy takes a drag of his joint and then hands it across to Ian. “Though not so small if you've lived a Mickey free life this long.”

I know. Shit.

“Just a heads up, I don't do the readin' thing so well, so don't go usin' no big complicated words, okay?”

Ian just types a thumbs up emoji in response.

“You got your thumb right there, why don't you just do an actual thumbs up?” Unlike Mickey, Iggy does not sound exasperated, just curious. Ian grins at him like _that's the joke._ Iggy grins back. “Man, that's fuckin' funny. I like you.”

It's not long before Ian decides he likes Iggy back. Also, this fuckin' weed. It is good shit. He can already feel the warm, floaty comfort of the high seeping into him, stronger than he's felt in a while. He sighs and sags back against the couch, warm and comfortable as he listens to Iggy ramble through a few childhood stories; of Mickey, barely waist height, tryna be as tough as the older boys. Mickey with cut knees and a bowl hair cut (Ian _needs_ to see pics of that, like, yesterday) scaling up Colin like he was a fuckin' climbing frame. Mickey who used the couch as a springboard and swung from the curtains.

“Fuckin' had a thing for Mandy's doll, uh, Nancy, think they called her. Any chance to play with that creepy bitch. Anytime dad wasn't around to call him out for it, y'know? He and Mandy used to swap. She'd play war with his G.I Joe and he'd babysit Nancy for a while.”

Ian just smiles and listens and nods where appropriate, completely endeared by the image of little ugly haircut Mickey nursing a doll.

Somewhere along the line, they transition from talking to just laughing. Ian's definitely high now. His limbs are both heavy and floaty, and he's sure he's losing time; present for the first part of a sentence, then blinking back to consciousness halfway through the next. He's not sure who started laughing first; thinks, perhaps, it may have originated with Iggy's giggles. It doesn't matter. They're in a cycle now. The sound of Ian's wheezy laugh is endlessly amusing to Iggy, and the harder Iggy laughs, the funnier Ian finds the situation. The more he wheeze laughs, the more it encourages Iggy's laughter, and so they go in circles. They're breathless, tears rolling down their red faces, leaning forward and each gripping the other's arm for support as they laugh and laugh and laugh.

That is how Mickey finds them.

*

Mickey's in a bad mood. Has been for days. Antsy. Does a whole lotta fuckin' pacing. Distracted. Vague in his responses. Stares at Ian's text printed words for long stretches without really taking in what they say. Even sex isn't as appealing to him lately, and the only time he feels the frantic feeling that's building inside him settle temporarily is when Ian is holding him, keepin' him pressed warm and close, and he fuckin' feels safe.

Which is real fuckin' ridiculous, to be honest, 'cause he ain't ever needed anyone to keep him safe before. He can fuckin' look after himself. Well, except from one thing. The one thing none of the Milkoviches can protect themselves from.

Terry.

M I C K ? !

Ian waves the phone in front of his face. Mickey blinks, looks from the screen to his face. His eyebrows shoot up, questioning.

You ok?

“Fine.”

You seem distant the last few days. Have I done something?

“No.”

Would you tell me?

“It ain't you, alright?”

What is it then?

“Nothin'. Nothin' important.” Mickey wants to leave it at that. He's got no need to be talkin' about shit like this, but Ian has this way of fuckin' pullin' words out of him, even though he ain't got none of his own to offer. Like now, those eyes (they look blue today) just staring at him, open and attentive, silently encouraging him to spill what's on his mind. “My old man's gettin' out at the starta next week.”

Oh. That sucks.

“Yeah, man, sucks for you. Won't be able to hang out over here any more.”

How are you feeling?

“The fuck kinda question is that? Ain't feelin' shit. Terry's in and outta the joint all the time. No big deal. Just shit havin' to deal with the whole fuckin' Milkovich clan at the welcome home bash, y'know?”

I could come!

“Yeah, right. You know my dad's a homophobic asshole, right? He'd kick both our asses.”

Don't gotta come as your date

Just as support

“What kinda lil bitch you take me for? I don't need a cheerleader. I've survived plenty of these things.”

Ian frowns.

):

“Yeah, I know, I can see your fuckin' face.”

When is it?

“Tuesday.”

My day off!

“You don't wanna waste your day off at the Alibi watchin' my family get pissed, man.”

It's where you'll be <3

“What the- Is that a fuckin' heart? Jesus, you are so fuckin' gay, I swear-”

Mickey is cut off by Ian catching the back of his neck and dragging him forward for a kiss. He's caught off guard for about two seconds before he's kissing back forcefully, tongue pushing forward, but Ian doesn't meet his force. He rubs light circles against Mickey's jaw with his thumb, and Mickey'd be lyin' if he said he didn't feel the soft touch comfortin'. Ian licks into his mouth slow, languid; kissin' him in a deep, meaningful way.

Mickey's lashes flutter when Ian moves back. His lips are still parted, his breathing a touch more shallow than before. It's fuckin' ridiculous how much Ian can affect him with a simple kiss, but he's just given in to Ian's powers of makin' him fuckin' melt in ways he'd never thought he would. Who knew? Mickey Milkovich; clandestine romantic. Ian Gallagher, apparently. Fucker.

You seem pretty gay right now

“Fuuuuck you.” Mickey flips him off. Ian snaps playfully at his finger. Mickey laughs, shoving his head back. “Seriously, man. It's fine.”

Well y'know it's a free country so if I just HAPPEN to be in the bar on Tuesday...

“Ian.”

Just sayin

“Well I'm just sayin' this conversation is over.” Mickey takes Ian's phone, delighting in his offended face as he sets it aside. Before Ian can stretch his lanky arms to retrieve it, Mickey moves in to kiss him again, and he seems to forget all about his phone.

That's the last Mickey hears of the topic, and he thinks that Ian's got the point and left it. He should know better, really. Ian's like a particularly stubborn dog with a fuckin' stick when he gets one of his dumbass ideas in his head, so while he doesn't mention the party again, come Tuesday, Mickey walks in to find him at the bar.

“That thing looks like shit,” Mickey says, looking at the faded and worn **WELCOME HOME TERRY** sign Iggy and Colin are stickin' above the door.

“Been used a lot,” Iggy says, following him into the bar.

That's when Mickey catches the sight of Ian's red head at the corner of the bar. He's got a barely touched beer in front of him and is chatting to Kev as he fills shots for two of Mickey's uncles or some shit. He's never quite sure what relationship people are to him, 'cause his family tree is fucked. So many bastard kids pumped out no one can really keep track of who's whose.

“Hey, is it a good idea for him to be here?” Iggy asks him quietly.

Mickey scowls. At Ian. At Iggy. At the whole fuckin' bar full of people he can barely stand. At the fact he has to be here when he and Ian could have been doin' somethin' else with their day. Even hangin' at the Gallaghers' and smokin' in their shitty, run down van in the back yard would have been preferable to this. He hates how he feels obliged to show up. Hates that no matter how much he hates Terry (and he does, with a burnin' fury), that some part of him still can't openly go against him.

Years of abuse have led him here. Of Terry breakin' down any sense of self worth any of them ever had; strippin' his children bare and leaving it so that only his praise and validation would make them feel, even if only for a fleetin' second, like they were doin' something right. Like they weren't the waste of space he was always tellin' them they were. It's fucked. On some level, Mickey's aware of that, but just 'cause he can see it doesn't mean he can do anything to stop it.

“The fuck you doin' here?” he hisses, standing close to Ian so no one will overhear them.

Just having a drink

“You couldn't do that at home?”

Free country :)

Ian is infuriating. Mickey is about to tell him so, when the door to the Alibi slams open and Terry bursts in to cheers from the (already mostly pissed) Milkoviches. Mickey springs away from Ian like he's been burned, scared that even fuckin' standin' near him will give them away. His heart is beatin' hard and he feels sick, feels bile in the base of his throat.

He swallows it down and forces a smile. Gives Terry a firm pat on the shoulder when he passes.

“Hey, pops. Welcome back.”

He feels Ian's eyes on him constantly. Even if when he looks, Ian doesn't seem to be lookin' at him, he knows he must be stealin' glances. He feels his phone vibrate at one point, but he don't dare take it out in case someone sees the screen. He drinks. He drinks everything that's set in front of him; shots, whiskey, beer after beer after beer.

The evening is dwindling on. Mickey is quite buzzed, stealing hazy glances at Ian across the bar. He only catches him lookin' back once, but it's enough for a thrill to twist in his stomach. He's drunk enough that he's actin' dangerously. If he gets caught lookin' like that, Terry's gonna beat him, maybe half the other guys in the room will help him, but thankfully, his father seems too pissed to notice. Mickey thinks he'll probably be able to slip home with Ian afterwards and no one will notice.

He's not paying attention to the conversation, so is completely caught off guard when suddenly he's got a lap full of Russian prostitute. He's so shocked that he just fuckin' blinks up at her as she loops her arms around his neck and wriggles against his non-existent boner.

“You don't get fucked enough, my son,” Terry is saying, his words slurred, and Ronnie is laughing in a way that's fuckin' gratin' on Mickey's last nerve. “Never say yer ol' man don't do nothin' for you.”

There's a hand on his thigh and every touch makes his skin crawl. He glances across the bar, sees Ian watching him with a blank expression. He knows that look. Is used to seein' it when he fucks up and Ian tries to hide away his hurt expression. He hates that look. Mickey stands, abrupt, sending the girl toppling to the floor. It ain't the Russian's fault, he knows, but the move is instinct, trying to get away. He don't want her touches. Don't want anyone touchin' him like that but Ian.

“What's wrong?” Terry's eyes narrow on him and Mickey feels small, feels like he's five years old and cowering from the raised voices and the angry tones of fighting.

“I, uh- not my type,” he says, fumbling for a lie.

“Tits ain't your type?”

“I like fuckin' carrot tops. Like, with the freckles an' the pale skin. Fuckin' alien lookin'.” He's rambling. He knows he's rambling, but he's too drunk to reel it back in. Thinks maybe if he keeps talkin' he can just talk his way out of this.

Shockingly, it seems to work. Terry laughs; loud, bellowing. He pulls the girl onto his own lap and slides one hand right up her skirt, while the other beckons over another whore. Mickey feels his stomach drop as the redhead sashays across to him in too high heels. She ain't a natural ginger. Her hair is dyed, and it's _red_ red, not the orange red Ian's is, like a fuckin' sunset sky or some shit. Fuck. He's pissed and he don't want no bitch touchin' him. He steps back. Terry's smile fades again.

“Don't be fuckin' picky. Don't matter what they look like when you're getting' your cock sucked. Got you a redhead, didn't I?”

“I prefer them packin' nine inches,” Mickey says. It's strange, because he knows he's saying it. Knows the words are leaving his mouth, but he feels like he's also left his body. Fuckin' floated away from it. Everything feels cold and kinda numb.

“The fuck?”

Terry doesn't seem to understand, but some of the others do. Murmuring. Well, fuck them. Mickey ain't gonna wait until they explain it.

“I'm fuckin' gay, alright? Big ol' 'mo. So I don't want none of your whores. I want dick. Specifically, I want my fuckin' soulmate's dick. That lanky ginger asshole over there.”

He waits for the world to come crashin' down around him.

Nothin' happens. The music continues to play. He gets a few looks, but, after a brief lull, everyone returns to their drinks and conversations. Terry squeezes his girl's thigh, takes the last drag of his cigar and presses it into his ash tray. Mickey is frozen. His limbs are heavy and his body is tense with fear, but there's also a gushing relief within him, so strong it brings the threat of tears close to the surface. He's done it. He's out, and he seems to have gotten away with it.

Then Terry screams, flips the table in front of him, and everything goes to shit.

*

It's hard, sitting watching him with that girl's hands all over him, but Ian knows it ain't Mickey's fault. Is pretty certain Mickey would never let it go any further. He's just trying to keep the fierceness of his jealousy buried deep inside of him when Mickey starts rambling about carrot tops, and he has to hide his smile by taking a drink. Kev winks at him, which doesn't help with fighting his grin down at all. He knows, of course. Fiona's honour bound secrecy doesn't stretch to V; and what V knows, Kev knows.

He's not lookin' at Mickey when the words carry across to him, but he turns in time to see the finger pointed in his direction as Mickey names him as his soulmate. Both Ian's stomach and chest do weird little twists. He's stunned, completely, but it doesn't stop the wide, dopey grin that spreads across his face.

The smile is short lived. It vanishes the moment Terry moves towards Mickey. He sees Mickey fighting back against him, but he doesn't see much beyond one wild punch, because he's on his feet immediately and closing the distance between them. Ian shrugs off his coat so he has freer movement of his arms, and drags Terry back and off Mickey. He knows he is furious, but he feels a deep calm as he turns the man towards him. No one hurts his mate. It's that simple.

He rams his forehead into Terry's nose; both the crunch of bone and the pain that blossoms across his skull are extremely satisfying. He follows Terry down, landing on his knees over him and throwing a punch, then another, and another. He punches until his knuckles ache. Then Mickey is at his shoulder, and Ian can smell the blood on Mickey's face as Mickey catches his wrist.

“Hey, that's enough.”

Ian stills. Reaches up and strokes Mickey's cheek, tender.

Then one of Terry's poker buddies smashes a chair over his back, and this time it's Mickey who springs up in his defence, smashing a bottle over the asshole's head. Ian's kind of lost in the blur of fighting after that. He knows he and Mickey are covering each other, and that a lot of the guys throwing blows are probably just lookin' for a drunken brawl rather than any real intent in the fight.

By the time the cops have come to break it up, they're both bloody and aching. Terry's dragged kickin' and screamin' in cuffs, and much to Ian's distress, so is Mickey. Kev holds him back from getting in a fight with the cops as well, but he follows them outside, hovering nearby. Terry is shouting aggressive slurs at Mickey and trying to lash out at him.

“You fuckin' faggot, you better not have your pole suckin' aids monkey in my house.”

“We've basically been shacked up since you've been in the can, bitch. And guess what we've been doin', daddy? We've been fuckin'.” Ian bites his lip to stop his laughter as Mickey lewdly humps against the police car. Part of him wishes Mickey would keep his mouth shut and help reduce his chance of arrest, but another part is just enjoying him taunting his fuckin' prick of a father. And he thought Frank was bad. “And I take it. He gives it to me good and hard, and I fuckin' like it.”

 _Yeah you do_ , Ian thinks. He cheerfully flips Terry off as he's chucked into the back of a police car and hauled back off to prison. _Hope you fuckin' rot there._

“And you're free to go,” the cop holding Mickey says, opening his cuffs. Ian immediately moves forward as Mickey rubs his wrists, hand on his lower back, hovering protectively near his side. “I can't believe we still have to deal with shit like that. Everyone knows you don't get to pick your mate; things like gender shouldn't matter when you've been lucky enough to find them. If anyone ever said that kind of shit to me or my husband Carlos, it'd probably drive me to violence, too.”

Ian smiles widely at the officer, wishing he had the words to thank him. Mickey is quiet at his side, seemingly stunned. Ian's arm curls around his waist. No need to be secretive now. He's free to touch Mickey with casual affection in public. His smile softens when Mickey leans into him.

“You boys should get home and get cleaned up,” the officer says, getting back in his car.

“Well, that's that, I guess,” Mickey says, exhaling slowly.

They both look up at the sound of loud whooping from Iggy.

“Good job, Mick. Four fuckin' hours. Shortest stint we've ever had to do with him.” Iggy laughs, holding his beer bottle up in a toast to them. “Free house and quiet life for the foreseeable future again.”

“You're fuckin' welcome.”

When Iggy floats off, Ian fishes out his phone.

You okay?

“Think I broke a fuckin' tooth. You?”

Ribs don't feel too great

Wanna go home?

“Yeah.” Mickey slowly, tentatively, reaches down and takes Ian's hand. Ian tugs him closer and presses a kiss to the top of his head. The little flicker of Mickey's smile and the warmth of his fingers between Ian's are worth every ache and throb of his body.

*

Ian's the first to notice it when Mickey gets his mark.

He's back from his morning run, freshly showered, and crawled back into bed to nuzzle and kiss Mickey awake. It ain't the worst thing to wake up to, but Mickey runs on a different clock than Ian, and it's still far too fuckin' early. He grumbles, bleary. Can feel Ian's lips trailing over his jaw, his neck, nipping at the sensitive area there he fuckin' knows makes Mickey twitch and sigh beneath him.

Mickey dunno how, but Ian just seems to fuckin' _know_ all his sensitive areas, all the spots that make him wriggle or laugh or fuckin' moan like a bitch. It ain't fair. He dunno how Ian can just touch him with such confidence, move his way over him like he got a fuckin' map in the mail or something lettin' him know all the Top Tourist Spots of Isle Mickey. It's been months now and Mickey's sure he don't know all Ian's pleasure points yet.

Fuckin' lanky sex god bastard.

It ain't been long since the Terry incident, and they're both still tender. Mickey's still aching and bruised, but Ian takes care to avoid the worst of the damage as he slithers down, teasing the blanket away from Mickey and kissing his shoulder. Then Ian's mouth is gone and his body shifts as he moves away.

Mickey opens his eyes to squint in irritation at him. Ian has pulled back, and is looking at Mickey's chest with a kind of wide eyed awe.

“What the fuck are you lookin' at?”

Ian touches the left side of his chest. Then taps it, insistently, until Mickey looks down. On his chest, the same part of Ian's chest that bears his mark, but the complimenting fuckin' side (of course, they're _that_ gay), dark lettering that wasn't there last night has appeared.

“The fuck's it say?” Mickey asks, as he's having trouble reading it upside down.

Ian grabs his ever ready phone, but instead of typing it out, he takes a photo for Mickey instead.

_**Fuck. I love you, Mick.** _

“Of fuckin' course. Man, you're so fuckin' gay, I ain't even surprised.”

From the way Ian looks at Mickey, he knows he'd fuckin' punch him if he weren't already so tender.

“This definitely your handwriting?” Ian nods, looking like the fact Mickey would even question that offends him. “Shit man, this mean you're going to get your voice back?”

Ian's lips part like the force of that ideas only just hit him. His tongue slides out to dampen his lower lip. Mickey watches it. His own tongue absently pokes at the corner of his mouth, unconsciously mirroring. Ian's lips move, form around the word _fuck_ , but it doesn't come out.

“Soon, though, yeah?”

Ian smiles. Nods. Leans in and kisses Mickey with fresh enthusiasm.

Mickey keeps waitin' to hear Ian speak. Excited to finally hear what his fuckin' voice sounds like after all this time, and, if he's honest, the fuckin' giddy schoolgirl bitch inside of him is buzzing that he's got those specific words as his mark. That they're always gonna be on his skin like an honourable badge of pride, constant fuckin' reminder of Ian's love. Perfect. But he ain't ever gonna admit that shit to anyone.

In true Ian fashion, even though Mickey's expecting it, he still manages to catch him completely off guard.

*

Ian's between Mickey's legs. One is hooked up over his shoulder, and he's holding the other beneath the thigh as he fucks Mickey, slower than his usual pace, too slow. Mickey keeps squirming and trying to get him to go deeper, but Ian's enjoying this, just teasing. Mickey is a little flushed beneath him, head back against the pillow, hair fanned over his forehead. He's biting his lip and half glaring at Ian from hooded eyes. His pupils are blown.

He's fuckin' gorgeous. Even with the fading bruises. Ian feels his whole body warm and practically thrumming with love for this mess of a man, with cut knuckles and quick tongue, who never knows when to shut up and thinks all problems can be sorted with fists, with his secret tender side that only Ian gets to see and his disregard for how fucked up Ian is. He doesn't make everything okay but he makes Ian feel like even when everything is going to shit he has somewhere to shelter from the world for a while.

The peace within his chaos.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ, Ian, would you fuck me properly before my balls give up and drop off.”

Ian laughs his breathy laugh and presses a kiss to the inside of Mickey's knee. He doesn't speed up. Mickey huffs in irritation. Ian flicks his tongue behind Mickey's knee, at the sensitive, ticklish area; until Mickey wriggles aggressively and kicks him in the shoulder with his free foot, hard. It hurts, but Ian just laughs again.

“You know how much I fuckin' hate tick- Jesus _fuck._ ”

Ian smirks as any further words Mickey had are lost in a moan as he finally picks up his pace. He curls his arm around Mickey's thigh and holds it flush against his chest as his hips slam forward. Mickey's foot presses against his back, like he's trying to pull him deeper. When his back arches, Ian knows he's hit the spot, and does his best to keep that angle. He's starting to feel the effort, panting, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, but he doesn't slow his pace. It's worth it for the sight of Mickey, whining and moaning and occasionally swearing, head tipped back, hands gripped in the sheets. He clenches his ass around Ian's cock and Ian feels the jolt of pleasure all the way through his stomach.

“Fuck.” He practically breathes the word out, and his rhythm stutters in his surprise. Mickey's eyes fly open and meet his. The next words come easy, and he thinks, even if he hadn't seen Mickey's mark, they're exactly what he'd want his first words to be. “I love you, Mick.”

Mickey laughs. It's not amusement, but a kind of overwhelmed, emotional laugh. His eyes go a bit pink, like he might well up, and Ian knows he's probably trying to fight that down because he hates how sensitive he is. Ian can't stop grinning. Mickey's grinning right back. His hips have slowed to a kind of sloppy, half assed rhythm now, but it doesn't matter. It's just background.

“You fuckin' talked.”

“Yeah.” Ian's voice is a little hoarse from lack of use. His throat feels weird moving around the words. His face aches with the force of his smile.

“Shit.” Mickey presses his palm to his eye. “I ain't ever heard your voice before. That's the first time I've heard your fuckin' voice.”

“Yeah.”

“I like it.”

Ian laughs, lowering Mickey's leg so he can lean down and kiss him. He only means to go in for a quick peck, but then Mickey's cupping the back of his head and pushing his tongue into Ian's mouth, and Ian melts into the kiss, humming against Mickey's mouth.

“Good,” he says, when they finally break apart. A touch breathless.

It's Mickey's turn to laugh.

“I love you,” Ian says again, 'cause he can, wanting to reaffirm in case his voice fades again.

“So you fuckin' said.” Mickey's still grinning wide, though. It's stretching his mouth and his eyes are practically fuckin' twinkling, and Ian is just so awed by it. He wishes Mickey always looked this happy. Wishes he could always make him look like this.

“Say it back,” Ian says, softly. His voice catches a bit, and he thinks it might go on him again, soon, but that's okay. It's a process. The fact that he's spoken at all is what matters.

“What?” Ian pouts at him, and Mickey can only hold off a second before giving in. “I love you.”

To his credit, Mickey manages to look at Ian while he says the words, his gaze only veering off towards the end. He doesn't care. It's enough. It's more than e-fuckin-nough. He kisses Mickey again, pouring all his joy and all his fuckin' adoration into it as he starts fucking him again. Not as quick as before, but not the slow, teasing pace, either. Enough to please them both. Enough to get them there without feeling rushed or frantic.

He strokes Mickey off, and it's longer than they usually last. Their kissing breaks off as Mickey starts to get close. He's too busy panting against Ian's mouth and focusing on his impending orgasm to focus on moving his mouth back against Ian's, but that's fine. Ian just moves to his neck. Laps at the pulse point as he rolls his hips forward. He grinds against Mickey's prostate and speeds the movement of his hand.

“Fuck, Ian.” Mickey clutches Ian's hair as he comes between them, but he keeps rolling his hips back. “C'mon. Come for me.”

The encouragement is nice, but unnecessary. A few more faster thrusts and Ian is right behind Mickey.

Once they're cleaned up, he curls around Mickey, tangles their limbs and tugs the blanket over them. He runs his thumb over Mickey's knuckles. Mickey lifts their joint hands and kisses the back of Ian's.

“Never gonna get you to shut up now, am I?”

Ian laughs, pressing kisses to the back of Mickey's neck.

“Nah. Feel it goin' again.”

“Shit man, really?”

“It's okay. Said the important thing.”

“You're such a fuckin' sap,” Mickey says, but Ian sees the smile he doesn't manage to hide.

It's fine. It's a process, but he means it. He's said the important thing.

What else is there to say, really?

 


End file.
